


These Violent Delights

by NineMagicks



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Bakery, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Birmingham City, Doomed rivals to lovers, Heartfelt crack, High Street bakery wars, Innuendo, M/M, References to Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet References, Sausage rolls, greggs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-13 15:48:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29653620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NineMagicks/pseuds/NineMagicks
Summary: Two bakeries, both alike in merchandise,In fair Birmingham, where we lay our scene.What stands between Baz Pitch and a love like no other? Four days (well, three, but Gareth can’t count) and that most noble of battle cries —one sausage roll and a cuppa tea, please!All’s fair in love and sandwiches — but when the one you want works for your most bitter rival, is it not best to keep your distance? Before his dwindling number of days run out, Baz will have to find the courage to act...
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 72
Kudos: 101





	1. Act I - Tuesday

**Author's Note:**

  * For [arcanine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/arcanine/gifts).



> This is a fic about sausage rolls, empty benches, desperate crushes and workplace incentives. It's a birthday present for arcanine, who has graciously lost many hours of life to our conversations about niche British AUs only three people will want to read. Arcanine, you're an absolute gem and I give to you this rival bakeries AU, with its tragic airs of Romeo & Juliet - I hope it can make you laugh. Happy birthday!
> 
> The quotes in italics are lines from R&J that I have completely ruined. Thanks to otherworldsivelivedin for beta reading this.
> 
> Our scene is set in Birmingham, England. Last time I checked, there was indeed a branch of Greggs in the Bullring shopping centre (it's a British bakery chain). There also used to be one near New Street train station but I don't know if it's still there. Needless Alley is a real place, but it's not quite in the location it appears here. So though these are real places, please know it's not accurate. :) And the necessary disclaimer: I have no idea what working at Greggs might be like; this is all made up. This fic has not been Greggs-picked. I am not on commission for them, or anyone who goes by the name of Gregory. Thanks for reading, I hope you like it. <3

* * *

_Two bakeries, both alike in merchandise,_ _  
__In fair Birmingham, where we lay our scene._

* * *

  
  
  


**BAZ**

When I wake on Tuesday morning, there is but one truth ricocheting through my skull:

_I, Baz Pitch, am a disgrace to baking, for I am in love with the enemy._

I’m aware that it sounds dramatic, even by my usual West End-aspirational standards. I suppose we ought to try this again; it won’t do to have worked myself into a tizzy so early of a morning — Tuesdays are _hardly_ deserving of such chagrin.

“I, Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch, a Greggs employee of no great acclaim, am in love with a man who works for our most bitter adversary. The Capulets of the High Street sandwich chain world, if you will. He works for a rival branch — Bullring #1, which is as frightfully clinical as it sounds — decked in varying shades of blue and white. I knew I loved him the moment I realised he could not properly tie his company-supplied apron, and gave not a hoot. He reminds me, on a daily basis, of those vaguely unsettling Tango adverts from the nineties: _You know when you’ve been smacked over the head with a ridiculous crush._ ”

I sigh. Again.

_Far too dramatic._

Sometimes this oddly endearing man of mine comes to my work without his catering-standard hairnet, curls flapping wildly beneath the morning’s inevitably grey sky. I watched, once, as he stood beneath my shop’s awning, fashioning a substitute out of a B&Q carrier bag. _I’ve been sent here,_ he said, gruff and grimly appealing. _I’m supposed to turn your day around. Your branch’s sales are shit._

And he did turn it around. He does. He tips my days upside down and spins me dizzy.

What else is there to say that might seal my fate?

Let’s see: I’m quite sure this man only owns a single pair of jeans. One of his trainers lights up when he walks. (Only one, mind. The left.) When he arrives at work on his rickety death trap of a bicycle, he doesn’t so much embrace the day as gambol into it accidentally, disappearing through the Bullring’s sliding glass doors to reappear minutes later, carrying a hastily scribbled sandwich board, jeans now smeared with chalk.

 _COME TO GREGGS IN THE BULLRING!!!!_ it inevitably reads in jagged capitals. _ITS LOADS BETTER THAN THE OTHER ONE._

Every day I watch the people flock to him. _If only, if only I could._

Perhaps he thinks I’m interested in his branch’s special offers, rather than what _he’s_ offering. (What _is_ he offering? What is _happening_ to me?)

The Bullring shopping centre is a Birmingham institution. It has stood there, where New Street meets the High Street, for as long as anyone and their Great Aunt Maureen can remember. There was uproar when the company announced their intentions to open a second branch on the ground floor — _You’ll put yourselves out of business! Before you know it we’ll be swimming in sausage rolls and jam doughnuts, everywhere you look._

They haven’t put us out of business, though, despite the constant threat of Head Office consolidating, and closing one of the Birmingham shops. If anything, New Street Greggs has only grown stronger in the shadow of the monolith — we put together creative signs and displays, use off-the-grid recipes, implement aggressive sales campaigns that see staff patrolling the train station, tempting pedestrians into the shop for a free sample. They leave minutes later, dazed and satiated, a tell-tale trail of crumbs left in their wake.

Our ingenuity is not enough, however. Despite the steady stream of commuters, our branch isn’t getting the traffic it used to. Feet carry hungry mouths to the Bullring to shop until they quite literally drop, and there our customers empty their pockets into The Enemy’s overflowing tills.

We’re on the same side. We work for the same company. And yet if you asked one of my colleagues to set foot inside the Bullring, they’d offer themselves up to death and its final judgment, right there and then.

(Maybe we’re _all_ being too dramatic.)

I sigh, shaking a silhouette of flyaway curls and drab, life-ending blue from my mind as I slide a key into the staff entrance door.

_Bullring Greggs, where my dreams go to die._

There’s no need for us to hate each other. It’s illogical. But our branch is in a feud with theirs, owing to a historical dispute between the two managers. That one of them is my cousin only increases the need to tread carefully, so that he never learns of my traitorous feelings.

Dev Grimm, master sandwich artist and supreme idiot, can never know about Simon Snow. He’d never forgive me. (Accusations of _cavorting_ haunt me on a daily basis.)

Inside the shop, I stop to hang my coat on a wobbly peg and slide on a brown hairnet. I fasten it at the back of my neck with a clip stolen from my sister’s bedside table at the crack of dawn, as she slept on malevolently. (One might think that seven year olds live free of evil, but Mordelia Grimm has threatened me with death for lesser offences.)

“Hello?” I call, tying my apron in a neat bow and glancing around the kitchen. I’m not opening this morning — everything’s already up and running. I am merely the pretty face propped at the counter, a sausage roll sold with each flutter of my lashes. (I am truly useless at anything even marginally related to the concept of “cooking”, but I _can_ work a till.) I hear the day’s first transactions taking place through the opening to my right, where the shop front awaits. Bakes and pastries and coffee exchanged for crumpled money, tired hands reaching out for sustenance. I was one of them once.

It does not count amongst my wildest dreams, working here, but it’ll do whilst I’m finishing my degree. It’s conveniently located for the afternoon dash to lectures, in a low-lit corridor not far from the train station. I come across the odd nice customer, and those I work with are tolerable. Well, aside from Gareth — but one can’t expect all things in life to be perfect. Every workplace needs its lesson in abject horror.

“Oi oi, Baz! How’s your father?”

_Ah, there we are. Speak of the blight and it shall appear._

I don’t enquire as to whether he’s actually asking after my father — Malcolm Grimm is a senior lecturer at BCU, and Gareth is taking one of his modules — or whether he’s making a crude remark. Either is equally likely, and neither interests me.

“Good morning, regrettable colleague. I’d rather not engage in small talk.”

I turn my back and trudge to the staff room; there are only minutes remaining before my shift officially begins, and I intend to savour them. It seems somewhat pointless to make tea when I’m going to be serving it all morning, but my hands and feet take me through the motions regardless, switching on the kettle and seeking out a serviceable mug amongst the grubby offerings piled by the sink.

“Do you know what day it is?”

_Gareth de Gates. You are the grubby mug of my imagination, haunting me on a daily basis._

“Tuesday,” I reply curtly. I spare him a glance; his cheeks are ruddy, green eyes sparkling. He’s wearing a slightly nicer shirt than usual, though there _does_ appear to be a sugar sachet trapped in the dark waves of his hair. “Discovered the wonders of calendars, have we? You’re having a busy week.”

“Go on, Baz. Get it out of your system. It’s not me you’re angry with.”

His tone is snide; he’s feeling extra Brummie today, I see. I roll my eyes, filling the sink with far too much Fairy liquid and leaving the hot tap to run. I definitely _don’t_ have time to do the washing up, but the industrial-sized dishwasher is a trial unto itself to load. Dev won’t let me near the thing. I rinse the mugs as steam rises from the kettle, and Gareth whittles down my dwindling patience.

“It’s the twenty-third of February,” he says, leaning in the doorway with his hands in his pockets, every inch an idle threat. As much as I get on at the man from the Bullring for tying his apron incorrectly, Gareth is an equally unfashionable disaster. It looks like he got into a fight with a fishing net and gave up all hopes for dry land. “Only four days to go, Pitch. Three, really. Should we count today?”

Honestly. He’s a solid argument for calculators, let’s put it that way.

I’m running out of mugs to clean. There’s a plate and a couple of teaspoons, but the excuses I can find not to turn around and look Gareth in his ridiculous face are diminishing.

“I don’t start work for another three minutes. Can’t the haranguing wait?”

“The what?” he grunts. “Nah, meringues are on Wednesdays. I was in there for the usual intel this morning, by the way — the _other_ place. They’ve got their normal Tuesday specials: soup and a sandwich, six chicken nuggets for a pound. How come they get to sell chicken nuggets and we don’t? Anyway, just three days to go, Bazzy-boy — you’d best get a move on. I saw your bloke putting his stupid sign out earlier, and he looked a bit disappointed that you weren’t lurking in the doorway. You know, in that definitely-not-creepy way you do. Have you started getting ready for our big night out?”

I flick bubbles at Gareth until he goes away, cackling his despicable head off. He’s everything that’s wrong with the modern on-the-go bakery business. He’s what’s left after the tray of jam doughnuts has been wiped clean, but there’s one last bit of burnt sugar clinging to survival.

“Make yourself useful!” I snap. “Serve a customer, as ludicrous as it sounds. And put your bloody hairnet on!”

I don’t look to see if he does. I suspect that one day soon I won’t need a hairnet of my own — I’ll have been driven bald from the general stress of Gareth.

The wave of customers ebbs and flows as I dry the mugs, drain the sink, and make a weak cup of tea. All of the good tea bags are gone — I’m left with sawdust, which seems apt. The clock on the staff room wall tells me I’m already two minutes late for my shift, but I don’t rush — there’s far too much to contemplate.

_The twenty-third. Three days._

_How time flies without us knowing._

I take an over-ambitious mouthful, scalding my tongue. I’ve got to lay off the late-night Shakespeare — it’s making a tragedy of my thoughts.

When I started working here half a year ago, I took one brave look at the blue-aproned man across the way, and announced (to myself) that I was going to ask him out. “ _One of these days I’ll do it,”_ I threatened _. “Within the next year, most certainly.”_

Sadly, Gareth had been lingering nearby, and paid witness to my delusion.

 _“You’re fucking mental,”_ he’d said, waving a day-old baguette in my face. _“He’s one of them, Baz! A shopping centre sheep! He’ll have us one-starred all over TripAdvisor before you know it, then we’ll definitely get shut down. Don’t let Devo hear you talking like this.”_

I’d tried to be reasonable. Do people seriously write online reviews about warring bakeries? (My later searches confirmed that yes, they do.) (We are running a solid four-star establishment and I have somewhat stable feelings about that.)

 _“He’s not trying to steal our secrets,”_ I’d reasoned. “ _What is there to steal? He works for the same bloody company. He’s just trying to make a living, and looking painfully good whilst doing so. It’s not his fault he gets sent to work at our branch sometimes. He doesn’t have a say in where he goes.”_

It's not his fault I have to hate him.

Gareth had flicked my name badge and told me to remember where my loyalties lie.

 _“Mooning over him like he’s a prize sausage roll isn’t going to keep him away, is it, Pitch? Six months today. My birthday. I’ll bet you fifty quid and three steak bakes you’ll never tell him. I’ll take you out on the town with the lads and get you absolutely plastered_ — _find you someone new. You’ll forget all about that prat with the curly hair and bad intentions.”_

He was only trying to look out for me. (I think.) (I should have asked who on earth he thought he was, conducting a six-month countdown to his own birthday.) I wear the failure of my romantic life bright and brazen on my face, like a dismally spotty Blackpool illuminations.

After that argument, just one of many we’ve weathered, I forgot all about it. The bet.

_Take me out. Get me legless. Wipe my mind of Snow with a stranger’s kiss._

Weeks passed, and my yearning only grew stronger as identical days slid by. I paid no mind to my lessening time. In the second week of February Gareth thrust himself upon me, all sly grins and clumsy elbows, nudging me until I admitted I still hadn’t said a single productive word to Simon Snow, star bakery antagonist, other than those of a transactional nature. (Despite the fact that he works in the Bullring, Snow comes to our branch twice a week to buy lunch with his staff discount. He does it shamelessly, which is intoxicating — sometimes he’s even wearing his work apron.) (That’s how I learnt his name the first time. His badge was on upside down — I asked him what the fuck a NOWIS was.)

And now we’re here, staring the end of February in the face. A final few days to pluck up the courage and say _Simon Snow, I don’t care that you’re with them, the Capulet to my Montague. Would you care to split a leftover iced bun with me one day? I’ll meet you after dark in No Man’s Land._

I blush furiously into the bacon rolls.

 _No Man’s Land._ That’s what I’ve named the bench at the corner of Needless Alley, in the span of side streets between our two shops. It’s where he sits to eat his lunch, and I go out there too, when the days are brave. I perch at the far end and steal glances as he wolfs down a week’s worth of grease.

Occasionally we talk. Banal topics — the abysmal weather, how busy he is, how tired I am. I don’t mention that he works for The Enemy and he doesn’t say anything clever about Shabby Old Train Station Greggs. At the end of the hour we go back to our respective workplaces, and each time I kick myself for not saying more. For not trying harder. For not confessing, right there and then, that he’s the only curator of mediocre Danish pastries for me. For bringing Gareth one step closer to victory, and me a foot deeper into my own misery.

I’m in love with a man I can’t have. He smells of jam and custard and burnt coffee.

I’m in love with a man who sells tea so tepid it’s like drinking your own distilled ambition.

My mother would be _so_ disappointed in me. My father would cast me out. My manager — Dev, absolutely terrifying but thankfully rarely in the building, owing to his astounding lack of hands-on managerial skills — would strike my name from the hallowed Greggsian record.

It would have to be secret, if I told him. The sort of secret one takes to the grave.

_Snow. I like you. No measure of my affection has been discounted._

I smile at the first customer I see, pulling on my gloves, though they aren’t _him_ , and they’re not wearing blue. How could they compare?

I wonder what he’s thinking about as his day begins in another building, another world. Does he spare me any sort of mind at all?

* * *

_Do you bite your sausage roll at us, sir?_

* * *

**SIMON**

There’s one thing on my mind today. One thing, and nothing more.

Tuesday mornings take the piss.

On paper, I don’t have anything against them. Theoretical Tuesdays are perfectly fine, it’s just the practical Tuesdays that ruin everything. The Tuesdays that have the balls to actually happen. As days of the week go, I suppose it _could_ be worse — it could be Monday. But Tuesday isn’t the fastest day. It’s not the _best_ day. (That would be Sunday. No explanation needed.)

Not that I’m measuring how quickly the days go...could it even be measured? Wait, fuck — clocks. Sorry, I’m rambling. I’m just so _nervous_.

Baz does the late shift on Tuesdays. You wouldn’t think High Street bakeries (you have to capitalise it, it’s respectful) would have late shifts, but the public’s demand for sausage rolls knows no limits. He won’t leave until after nine tonight. I’m wondering when the Greggish management’s going to turn it into a twenty-four hour situation, to catch the post-pub and club stragglers who can’t remember where they left their own feet. It wouldn’t be a bad idea.

I’m a big fan of Greggs. I was, even before Baz started working at the one down the road. Even though it’s a solid five on the Traitorous Ingrate scale, I buy lunch there twice a week. (I’d get it more often, but then Baz might think I’m stalking him.) (I’m not. I’m just admiring from afar in silence without him knowing.) The rest of the week, I bring stuff from home. I sit on the bench in Needless Alley and hope he’ll join me, so we can pretend not to look at each other. I angle my feet so he’ll see me in perfect profile if he looks along New Street. I keep my uniform on so he won’t miss me.

It’s nice when he sits with me. It’s my favourite part of every week.

He doesn’t say _my cousin would kill me for being here_ and I don’t say _my manager would sack me if he knew._ It’s absolutely, completely, 100% fine.

I should’ve got a job at the New Street shop to be honest, but they weren’t hiring when I was looking for work. I saw an ad for the Bullring branch online and went for it. Our shop’s smaller — one shitty chiller cabinet and a plexiglass counter — so it’s got a cosy feel, when ten people are trying to cram inside. The manager, Niall, is alright — after my first week shovelling pasties into paper bags, he made me assistant branch manager in his absence. I don’t think his heart’s in it.

I’m only here part time — I’m doing a course at Aston uni, and it works out well. I’m not going to be buying a fancy Jag anytime soon, but I can help my flatmate with the bills. I can scrape my way through the week.

Niall says after uni I can go full-time, if I want. I haven’t decided. Part of me’s only working here because Baz appeared and made the days a bit brighter. (I don’t usually get obsessed with my mortal enemy corporate bakery colleagues, but he’s really good looking. And he’s got a nice accent. And soft hands.)

Sometimes I think about what it’d be like, working with Baz every day. If I woke up and saw his face at my counter, instead of Rhys and his bloody terrible Christmas cracker jokes. (The man is the very definition of unseasonal.) I’d probably have driven him mad by now. He definitely wouldn’t sit in Needless Alley with me to have lunch.

It’s better that I work in the shopping centre. This way I can go to him and buy things from him, without having to reveal all the weird bits. (Not that I _have_ any weird bits. That came out wrong.)

Sometimes I _do_ wish there was more to this than handing over a fiver and him giving me my change with a shaking hand. Me standing there like a pillock, trying to think of something clever to say and instead waffling on about the light fixtures, or something else nobody gives a flying fuck about. He asked my name once — said he’d never heard of a Nowis, and was that a made up language or am I bad at spelling? But we’ve not managed a proper conversation. Not yet.

I wonder why he never comes into the Bullring. Is he shy, or is he _that_ elitist about his sausage rolls? We know our way around a ring doughnut and a cup of Yorkshire strong enough to make Sean Bean cry. There’s nothing his branch can do that ours can’t do a million times better.

They _do_ get customers, though. Not as many as us, but they get the sleepy train business. People love brand names and the familiarity they bring — you might not know if you’ll enjoy high tea at that posh little café in the Jewellery Quarter, but you know you’ll love an omelette baguette and a packet of ready salted Walkers. His shop’s not going anywhere, and neither is mine.

My manager suspects I’m sweet on Baz. He sends me over there to spy — find out if there are any special offers on, maybe knock their sign over and make it look like an accident. I went along with it at first because it seemed a good laugh, but I stopped wanting to sabotage New Street Greggs around the time I realised I fancied the arse off Baz. (Also, I think Niall’s secretly looking for info on their manager, Dev. He looks like a smarmy budget Baz.)

I know it’s silly, thinking things could work between us. He works for Them and I work for Us. It’d be a shit-show, right from the start.

But I can’t help it; I _always_ cave in. I traipse over there, fishing for coins in my coat pocket. A day seems a waste if I haven’t seen Baz at least once.

By the time my Tuesday lunch break rolls around, I’ve shrugged off the majority of my more emo thoughts. (Hunger will do that to you.) All I can focus on is the short walk across the stones — it’s windy today, so I pull my hairnet off and will the wind to do its worst. 

I could abuse my staff discount and eat here at work. There’s a little room in the back with beanbags and a half-full bookshelf (Niall looks after us), and the people I work with are nice. (Well, apart from Rhys. He also takes the Intense Work Rivalry situation too personally, and is one bean melt away from a meltdown, at all times.)

If I stay here for lunch, my chances of _seeing_ Baz — let alone _talking_ to him — are less than zero. And I don’t fancy those odds.

So off I go into the elements, hands stuffed in pockets and head bowed. There’s no one on our bench ( _our_ bench) — that’s good. It stresses me out when it’s occupied. _That’s for me and my fancy doughnut bloke._ I stride past and hope to the gods of crumbs and meaty fillings that Baz is at the counter, and not his weird little colleague, Gareth.

Gaz is a mystery. He comes into our branch wearing a fake moustache and sunglasses; he thinks nobody recognises him, but I’d know that mug a mile off. (Rhys reckons he’s doing revenge reconnaissance — trying to scope out the specials.) (We know it’s him because the hem of his apron pokes out from under his coat.) (Also, he forgets he’s wearing his hairnet.)

Luckily, when the doors open I’m hit with a blast of warm air and the glorious sight of Baz in a perfect hairnet of his own, sliding veggie pasties into a paper bag. My stomach rumbles and tries to do a back flip at the same time — there are only two people ahead of me, and one other person working the counter, so I don’t have long to get the words straight in my head.

_Hello. Good morning. Nice to see you. I like to look at you._

I’m going to say something normal. Something clever. Something non-bakery related.

_Whatever you do, don’t ask him about his jammy fillings._

When it’s my turn, I avoid eye contact with the other Gregglodite and shuffle to Baz’s side of the counter. He’s positioned nicely behind the glass where they keep the bakes and my forever object of interest — the classic sausage roll. Can’t beat them.

“Hi,” I croak, clearing my throat. “I mean. Hello?”

He looks up from shuffling his bags, his jaw tightening as he catches sight of me. His words remain hard. _Villain,_ his eyes say. _Simon Snoop, here to spy._

“Was that a question?”

“What? I mean. What.”

“Hello. With a question mark.”

I swallow, looking down at my scuffed trainers and wondering why it’s going wrong already. How do I manage to fuck up saying _hello?_

“No. It’s a greeting. Everyone says it; it’s in all the films.”

He blinks at me. He must’ve been working here for six months, and I haven’t got tired of his eyes. They’re like a puddle on a rainy day. (In a nice way.)

“Well then,” he says. He sounds strained. _“Hello._ Can I get something for you?”

He holds out his gloved hands, indicating that I should probably pretend to make a choice, even though we both know how this is going to go down. I’m nothing if not completely predictable. “Two sausage rolls and a small tea, please.”

“Black tea?” he asks, knowing the answer. “Milk? Sugar?”

“Yes, yes, fuck no. Please.”

He licks his lips and turns to open a paper bag. He takes his time considering the sausage rolls before going for two golden-looking ones at the back of the shelf. My heart squeezes itself into a knot — they’re the ones most recently cooked. They haven’t been sat on display for an hour — he’s giving me the freshest ones. They’re still warm.

Baz _always_ gives me his best sausage rolls.

He places the bag on the counter and turns to fetch hot water for my tea, giving me a pretty nice view as he stretches up to the shelf where the tea bags are kept. The other person at the counter sniggers and says something I don’t catch — it’s the bloke who fancies himself a sleeper agent. Gareth of the bad belt buckles. I try to ignore him as he leans into Baz, saying something that must be bloody hilarious. (Though he’s the only one laughing.) Then he stalks off into the back, leaving me and Baz alone. Or as alone as it gets in here — there are at least two people behind me in the queue.

“Here you are,” he says, pressing a plastic lid into place on my cup, punching numbers into the cash till. “Four pounds fifty, all together.”

I slide my staff discount card across the counter. Our fingers touch as he pulls it towards him.

Our eyes meet.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. “I always forget.”

I smile. It’s shy, breathless, silly. “That’s alright. Three-sixty, yeah?”

He nods, swiping my card and almost throwing it back to me. “Yes. Three pounds sixty. Please.”

I’ve already got the money ready — exact change, this time. Just to surprise him. He raises an eyebrow at the lack of tatty fiver, attempts what I _think_ is a smile (though also, he might be trying not to be sick), and bashes at the till again. I realise the catastrophic error I’ve made when he _doesn’t_ hold out his hand with my change, and I _don’t_ get to keep him to myself for those extra few precious seconds. He doesn’t draw his fingers across my palm and I don’t get to imagine, for a split second, what it might be like to hold his hand.

Fuck. Not such a bright idea, was it?

I look at him. I can’t think of a reason to linger. The person behind me in the queue is shuffling and muttering something about _Greggs menu novices._ As if you’ve got a fucking clue who I am, mate.

“Cheers,” I mutter, picking up my tea. I almost forget my lunch, but he prods the paper bag with his elbow.

“See you on Thursday,” he says, cheeks burning. He knows my lunch schedule better than I do. “Are you busy today?”

I shake my head, then realise he’s talking about work. About _my_ shop. I nod, not quite looking at him. “Yeah. Morning rush, you know?”

He hums.

 _See you on the bench?_ I think hopefully. (Hopelessly.) He won’t be there for hours yet — on Tuesdays, he doesn’t eat until three. I’m dying of hunger by the time I can stage a casual-yet-completely-desperate non-meeting in the alleyway.

The person behind me is crowing about _soup inna cup_ and I’m being pushed out of the way, back through the sliding doors and out into the haze of commuters. The oval bites in the chiller cabinet taunt me as I go: _Weak. Pathetic. You couldn’t chat up a doorknob._

I drag myself to the bench to suffer a silent lunch, glancing up at fluorescent signs hanging over doorways, bright lights with no meaning.

I’ll never find the nerve to ask Baz out. I’m going to stare at him like an idiot for all eternity, then die alone in my nest of sausage roll crumbs. It’s what I deserve. Baz can do better than a second-rate bakery worker. (I mean, Baz is a bakery worker, too. But he's first-rate all the way.)

It’d never work between us. We’d only be at each other’s throats. _Your branch gets more corporate incentives! You lot are always undercutting our business with your misspelt signs and guerilla marketing campaigns! You lot work with Dev Grimm, and I have it on good authority that he’s the fucking worst!_

That’s a nice thought, Baz being at my throat. (Me, kissing his.)

I look my sausage roll in the eye and wish we might have met some other way. (Me and Baz, not the sausage. As far as you’re concerned, my son, this’ll do nicely.)

_For never was a story of more woe,_ _  
__than this of Simon Snow and his unrequited love for_  
 _the tall, dark and angsty bloke who works_  
 _at the sandwich shop down the street._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From _Romeo & Juliet_ by William Shakespeare:
> 
>  _“Two households, both alike in dignity,  
>  In fair Verona, where we lay our scene”_ \- Prologue.
> 
>  _“Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?”_ \- Act 1, Scene 1.
> 
>  _“For never was a story of more woe_  
>  than this of Juliet and her Romeo.” - Act 5, Scene 3.


	2. Act II - Wednesday

* * *

_Do not swear by the daily specials, for they change constantly._ _  
__Then your love would also change._

* * *

**BAZ**

When I arrive at work on Wednesday morning, the sky still sleepy with red, it’s to be quite literally slapped in the face with my own failure, courtesy of Gareth. At some point between closing and opening, he managed to stretch a paper banner across the staff entrance, so that when I walk through the door I smack into it nose-first.

I stagger back, taking in the terrible depths of my colleague’s cunning.

**_2 days!!!!!! GET A MOVE ON._ **

It’s like living in a Channel 4 remake of _The Ring_.

I rip the paper down and scrunch it into a furious ball before launching it across the staff room, completely missing the bin. Once I’m finally ready to open — having stomped my way from locker to kettle to counter — it’s to find Gareth arguing with the coffee machine, thrusting tools inexpertly into its depths, and an all-too familiar face pressed against the glass doors. (That _can’t_ be hygienic.)

My heart races. (At Snow’s unexpected appearance. Not at Gareth’s thrusting.) (He thrusts, and thrusts, and _thrusts_ with what I hope is a spanner.)

“Gareth,” I bark, feeling my face turn involuntarily hot. I turn my back on Snow and hope he hasn’t noticed. We haven’t switched the lights on yet — he can’t see much more than darkness, however determinedly he squints. “What in the holy name of Michelin are you doing?”

Gareth looks up from his duel to the death and snarls, “Fucking thing’s had it. I’ll sort it out.”

“No, we can call a —”

“I’m not calling anyone! I’m fixing it!”

I roll my eyes, hearing Trixie shout from the back.

“You’re supposed to be on sandwich duty, Gaz! Get in here and leave that blasted thing alone.”

Chastened, he does as he’s told. How is it that Trixie has the presence I so sorely lack? No matter; I desperately want him gone before he notices Snow at the door. Pathetically and unashamedly, I want The Enemy to myself.

Gareth tosses down his weapon — it is indeed a spanner, though crumbs only knows who he stole it from — and shoulders past me, apron hanging limply from his neck.

“You’re a nuisance,” I inform him, as annoyed by his two-day warning as I am about the coffee machine. _Don’t threaten me with a night out on the tiles. Those were the days, when Baz Pitch made a fool of himself “in the club” on a bi-weekly basis._ “Make yourself useful, before you break something else indispensable.” I eye the machine warily — it’s not smoking, which is a good sign. Perhaps I’ll be able to get it working before the first customer strolls in demanding a cup.

 _Tea. Snow prefers tea. If nothing else, I can make him a cup in the staff room. I could_ —

“Well well well then, what have we got here?”

I groan, loud enough to startle Trixie, who has just emerged from the back with a tray of pasties. She’s wearing varying luminous shades of yellow, orange and green, assaulting the senses. Her hair is bright pink, and the comparatively sedate Greggs apron does little to dampen the overall effect. She looks like she’s been attacked by a vicious packet of highlighters.

“You alright, Baz?” she asks brightly, glaring at Gareth. It’s a fair assumption that he’s the root cause of all ills.

“No,” I whisper. “I’m not alright.”

It’s too late for me to stop the next thirty seconds from unravelling, so I step back and watch it happen, a helpless bystander in my own lamentable charade. Gareth flicks on the overhead lights and trots to the doors with an awful grin on his face, unlocking them slowly.

“Good morning, sunshine!” the creature calls to my one, my only, my unrequited. “You’re up bright and early!”

I can’t bear to look at him. Snow, standing there in his uniform, haloed in morning light. Holding a paper bag and looking like something I want to eat.

Trixie takes one look at the unfolding drama, bursts into rapturous giggles, and goes skipping into the back to fetch the next tray of pasties. She is, for whatever evil reason, trailing glitter as she goes. _Why_ is everyone I work with determined to kill me?

I’m left alone with the man from There. Simon, wearer of wonky name badges and bearer of bad news. (Surely he can’t be _good_ news? Nothing good can come from the mouth that has mashed so many of my sausages into oblivion.)

The lights overhead illuminate the sheer awkwardness of the situation. For a moment I hope that a man walking by outside is about to come in and demand a breakfast bap, but he’s merely pausing to wrestle with his umbrella. I watch him go with a forlorn look on my face that Snow must take for distress, because he’s running a hand through his damp curls and holding his paper bag up to me, looking like a man about to cut a hasty departure.

“Here. Hi. I brought you this. Got sent here today. Where do you need me?”

 _Here,_ I think, licking my lips. _Right here, with me. Nine until five._

We stand, flanked on either side by humming chiller cabinets, bright signs overhead promising deals and prices I’ve long since learnt off by heart. And yet the only thing in my head right now is him and his crinkly paper bag, and the terribly earnest look on his face.

“What is it?” I ask.

_Why are you giving me something? Nobody told me today was a present day. Is this something Gareth arranged? Are you two colluding?_

Snow waits for me to peer inside at what appears to be a slightly squashed, though perfectly serviceable, Greggs jam doughnut.

A doughnut. The boy from across the way has brought me a doughnut. (For _breakfast?_ What sort of lunatic does he think I am?) (But...he brought it for _me._ )

“A doughnut,” I say, because those are now the only words I know. I hear shuffling from the back — I don’t think my colleagues are giving me quite the level of privacy I’d prefer. My stomach turns, imagining Dev strolling in and catching us like this. “Thank you?”

“Is that a question?” he asks sheepishly, bringing yesterday’s failure rushing back to me.

“No,” I say, averting my gaze. “It’s a thing. Everyone’s saying it.”

For the love of custard, I’m _blushing._

Snow, meanwhile, is nodding, and it’s unclear if I’m supposed to eat the damned confection right now, or make some sort of gesture of reciprocation.

“We made too many,” he says, messing with his hair. “And you never come in, so I brought you one. Might as well, seeing as I’m working here all day. I passed around the tray but we can’t eat them all. Me and the others, I mean.”

 _The others._ His colleagues. His immediates.

“Oh, well. That’s lovely. We sell more ring doughnuts here, than filled. They’re popular with the commuters.”

I don’t know why I’m telling him this. After our disappointingly brief encounter yesterday, I suppose I’m willing to cling to any and all conversational threads.

“Really? Ours like the jammy ones.” His eyes drift over my face, the ceiling, the space between us. “We do chocolates one, too. And custard.”

“I know,” I whisper, clutching the bag. “We work for the same company.”

His cheeks turn pink, and I immediately regret it. That’s the last thing I want, to make him feel foolish. He’s attempting to talk to me, and as usual, I’m buggering it up.

“We don’t sell chocolate ones,” I say quickly, gesturing to the counter where half a tray of ring doughnuts mingle with their jammier counterparts. “We tried them out last year, but they never took off. Our customers much prefer the rings.”

“Why?” Snow asks, frowning with concern. He stares at the bag in my hand, lost in thought. “Maybe chocolate ones make too much mess on the train? It’s a shame, really.”

“What is?” I ask. In my opinion, all manner of doughnuts are to be celebrated.

“The rings. All that space in the middle. Seems a waste.”

Greggs makes you like this, after a while. In the early days, whilst I was still trying to prune what information I could about Snow from my colleagues, I learnt that he’d been at the other branch for more than a year. Part-time, but even so. The philosophy of doughnuts is a treacherous thing even the most idle mind will be led to consider, after a time.

“I don’t see it as a waste,” I say gently. “The hole serves its purpose.”

(Is that true? I’ve never thought about it.) (I suppose it _does_ make it easier to hold.)

“But all that space could be filled,” Snow says, still deep in contemplation. “Isn’t that what it’s for?”

There’s a moment in which I intend to answer sincerely. Then we both realise what we’re saying, and we’re sputtering, stepping back at the same time as the bag shakes in my hand.

“Well, this is very —” ( _don’t say it don’t say it do_ NOT _say it, Basilton_ ) “— sweet. That’s sweet of you. And it’s good that you’re here. I’m sure Trixie would appreciate your help in the back.” I internalise the shudder. “Should I...would you like one of my…?”

_Don’t say rings don’t say rings forget the unholy concoction that is the ring doughnut._

“Simon! Are you coming? We’ve got an industrial-sized dishwasher with your name on it. I’ll show you where we keep the litre containers of rinse aid.”

Trixie stands in the doorway, her face a map of amusement. I avoid her wicked gaze and move out of the way. His hand brushes my hip as he takes up far more space than he needs to, in passing. (I don’t mind.)

Before he slips away from me he hesitates, nodding towards the shop doors and the wind-strewn street beyond. Rising up like Sauron’s evil eye behind it all, we see the tower of the Bullring. I stand awkwardly holding the bag, not wanting to suffer the indignity of sugared lips in his presence.

“It’s cold out there. Might stay here for lunch.”

Trixie cackles. There’s another tray in her hands — I risk a peek. Custard slices. Vanilla.

“I’ll show you the staff room, as well. And the manager, Dev, will be in later. Do you want to leave your coat in Baz’s locker? He never uses it.”

“I know where the staff room is. And it’s alright, I’ll just hang it on a peg. Cheers, though.”

Simon does an odd approximation of a bow then thinks better of it, and shuffles awkwardly through the door. He shouts back to me: “Um...cheers! Great, yeah. Have a nice one. I mean, a good day — have a good day. With me, here. Because I’ll be here. Washing up. In the back.” He waves like the queen, which seems horrendously formal.

Before I can offer so much as a _see you later, I’ll be here waiting for you in a state of avid longing_ in recompense he’s gone, and the clanking sounds of kitchen life spring up from beyond. I frown, blocking out the sounds of work as Snow chats happily with Trixie, the shop doors opening for a harassed looking couple, who mutter bitterly with their heads pressed together near the Ribena cartons.

_He wanted to give me a doughnut. Jam, sugared, unremarkable. I drown in the things on a daily basis. Surely he can’t be suggesting that his jammy filling is superior to my own…?_

I hold the bag as though it contains something precious. (It does.)

Then I roll my eyes at the snickering husk of a man once known as Gareth, back again to torment me.

 _“Two days,”_ he hisses, waggling his fingers. “Maybe Snow would want to come out with us on Friday night? I hear those Bullring lads get right nasty at the weekends. That’d be poetic — you, shitting yourself just looking at him, only to finally pull him in the depths of the Magic Box. If you ask nicely, I bet he’d fill —”

I threaten to force his face through the ancient and dilapidated toastie maker, though it does me no good. Gareth finishes his sentence, just as he’ll one day end my last nerve — I cover my ears and wait for his jaw to stop clacking.

Scowling and blushing again like a mad thing, I try _not_ to imagine how Snow might look, debauched and undone on a dance floor. Perhaps it _would_ be good for me, going out (providing I survive) — meeting someone new, taking my mind off The Enemy. It would likely be a healthier pursuit than the hopeless one I’m trapped in. 

I begin my shift, sliding sausage rolls into bags and glancing over my shoulder every five seconds, just in case Snow appears there with a tray of something hot for me. (Not _for_ me.) (Although I wouldn’t complain…) I can’t seriously be expected to _focus_ with him in the same building as me all day. My colleagues will understand if I make a few too many mistakes at the till and flee at lunchtime, seeking salvation in a stern shot of whiskey.

He’s worked here before; it’s nothing unusual. Their shop is always taking pity on ours and sending extra staff, when they’ve plenty of their own.

But I feel his presence life a knife cut and, through the silence of his absence, it stings with an ache that won’t subside.

* * *

_What's in a name? that which we call a vanilla slice_ _  
__By any other name would taste as sweet._

* * *

**SIMON**

Bloody stupid, that’s what I am.

A jam doughnut? A jam-bloody-doughnut, that’s my brain’s excuse for a bright idea? It’s no wonder Baz looked at me like I was a PoundBakery worker. Not only that, but then I start blathering on about _holes?_ What the fuck was I thinking?

(Holes. I was thinking about holes.) (And fillings.)

I smash the final remains of a custard slice into my face, annoyed at how good it is. It’s not even ten o’ clock, and all I’ve done is scrub spatulas and stuff myself with sugar. I definitely won’t want my lunch. (I actually brought a _salad_ from home, can you believe it.) When Niall phoned and told me to work at New Street today, because they were down a staff member, I suffered a sad fantasy of me and Baz sitting next to each other in the staff room, eating together.

It’s not like I’ll be having lunch outside. At this rate, the city centre will be flooded — the clouds have taken it upon themselves to pour, and I didn’t bring a coat with a hood. I’d look like a right berk sitting out there on my own, hoping he’ll appear.

I’ll just have to wait for clearer skies tomorrow. It’s not like we could try for a proper conversation with creepy Gaz nearby, accusing me of stealing shop secrets.

My own co-workers will be pissed off with me. The Bullring shop gets proper hectic on Wednesdays; we all see the New Street branch as a little holiday. Niall sends me here more often than the others, and they reckon it’s favouritism. (I reckon he knows I’m soft on Baz. He’s sussed out my twice-weekly lunch schedule and seems to be trying to match-make, whilst also remaining committed to the DOWN WITH DEV GRIMM manifesto that’s coded into our menus.)

I better find something useful to tell him, so he doesn’t think I’m over here betraying Bullring #1. I’ll check out the meal deals later, see if there’s anything special — anything we could replicate on our end to get customers looking our way. Sometimes the chalk signs I draw don’t do much, and in rain like this, it wouldn’t last ten minutes out on the street. 

I wonder if Baz has eaten my doughnut yet. His lunch break will be at the same time as mine — maybe he’ll try it then. Maybe I’ll get to watch him take the first bite. He’ll sit next to me in a plastic chair and we can pretend we’re in Needless Alley.

He looked dead nice in his uniform. Official. He messes with his hairnet but it doesn’t look that bad — it’s just another thing we have in common. Food standards, flyaway hair. His apron’s tied properly, and he never wears trainers to work, like I do. He wears proper shoes. He takes the job seriously.

I like that about him.

I’m worried I fucked things up by attacking him with a doughnut, but I needed an excuse to talk to him, and I didn’t want to risk being accosted by Gareth or one of the other miscellaneous Greggers. Maybe he guessed I was lying about making too many — the one I gave him was from last night. I heated it up in the microwave at home, so he’d think it was fresh.

It’s probably best if he just chucks it in the bin, to be honest. Yeah, that’s what he’ll do. He’s got standards.

“These are the delicates — they can’t go in the dishwasher, so we’ll wash them by hand.”

I sigh, scrubbing at a pan with a wire sponge and passing it to Trixie. She frowns at my frown and tells me to _cheer up, duck_ — _it’s not the end of the world_.

But it’s not that great really, is it? I fancy this bloke I sort of work with, sort of work against, and when I try to find out if maybe _he_ fancies _me,_ I bollocks it all up.

I stand with my elbows on the edge of the sink. I close my eyes and imagine a steady stream of people moving in and out of Baz’s doors, lining up to smile at him, talk to him, _flirt_ with him.

Fuck.

I need to go outside and distract myself, but the weather’s too miserable, and we’re still elbows deep in washing up.

“Simon, are you alright?” Trixie asks, concerned. I don’t mind working with her; she’s better company than Gareth. She tells jokes so bad it’d make Rhys the Christmas cracker specialist cry. Then she giggles until the cute, pointy tips of her ears turn pink. “Do you want to go to the counter and see if Baz —”

My phone goes off in my pocket — the Imperial Death March from _Star Wars,_ which means it’s Niall. He’ll be calling for intel but I’m shit at that too, you see. The sabotage stuff. The spying.

“Soz,” I say, drying my hands on my apron. “Can I take a quick call?”

I don’t wait for her response. I run out into the corridor and lock myself in the locker room, wishing I hadn’t bothered getting up this morning.

 _“Find out anything new?”_ my ever so professional manager asks immediately. In the background I can hear the slop of a knife, a complaint about the smell — they’re making tuna crunch baguettes. _“Or did you get mushy, staring into your bloke’s dead eyes again?”_

I huff and fiddle with the lock on the nearest door. I hear footsteps, then shuffling — Niall’s tidying up the soup sachets. “Keep it down, yeah? They haven’t got any specials on,” I lie. I’m not going to spy today. “Just the usual stuff.”

“ _The usual stuff_ , _”_ he mocks. Niall should’ve sent Rhys; he’s really into the corporate subterfuge. _“They stick that pretty idiot at the counter to distract you, you realise. It’s part of their plan to steal the lunch time rush.”_

I roll my eyes. “No one’s stealing anything. They get the train traffic, we get the shoppers. There’s enough room in Birmingham for both of us, Niall.”

He growls. I hold the phone away from my ear until he’s back on his words again. _“Bullshit, Snow. It’s about downsizing_ — _condensing, whatever the word is. When Head Office decide to close one of the city centre branches, you’d better hope it isn’t us.”_

I tap my fingers distractedly against the padlock. There are letters under the numbers — I type in my name. 7 6 6 9: S N O W.

“He doesn’t distract me,” I go on, proving myself wrong instantly by distracting myself with thoughts of Baz and his luscious hairnet. “I honestly didn’t see anything — they haven’t put a sign out front, and they aren’t any promotions at the counter.”

Niall falls silent. He’s scary when he gets like this. Dev Grimm must really have wronged him.

“It’s going to rain all day,” I carry on. The padlock has sprung open in my hand; I frown as the door swings open. “Most people will stay at home — it’ll be a shit day for both shops. We’ll try again tomorrow, if you need to send me here.”

He grumbles his agreement. _“Just remember, Simon. There can never be peace between us, do you understand?”_

Honestly, it’s like living at a fucking _Peaky Blinders_ fan convention.

“Sure. Fine. Whatever.”

Niall lets me go, mumbling something incomprehensible about a shortcrust shortage. I’m left holding my phone in one hand and the open padlock in the other, staring up into the locker I’ve accidentally opened.

It’s Baz’s. It has to be; there’s his fancy coat that’s designed to look nice, but not actually keep you dry. There’s nothing else in here, just that and his lunch box. I recognise it from all our silent hours spent on the bench in the alley.

Someone walks past the locker room and I jump, quickly slamming the door shut and sliding the padlock back in place. I shove my phone in my pocket and sneak back to Trixie as quietly as I can, trying to think up an excuse to be put on counter duty with Baz this afternoon. My heart sinks as I stand in front of the heaving dishwasher, another mountain of spatulas (spatulae?) and rolling pins rising up out of the sink.

“Sorry!” Trixie says brightly, passing me the bucket of Fairy liquid. She giggles more maniacally than I’d like, shaking her mass of pink hair. Her brightness should cheer me up, but I think it’s giving me a headache. It’s like staring a 90s workout video in the face. “That’s just how Wednesdays go!”

I nod, grumble, bending my head over the sink and getting to work. If only I could stop thinking about Baz and how confused he’d looked, gazing down at my soggy jam doughnut.

_Maybe he liked it. Maybe nothing’s as bad as it seems._

I lick vanilla off my teeth and wish for the rain to stop. I wish for an excuse for us to meet on the bench later, and have lunch together.

I think about how Baz’s locker combination is my name, and what a funny coincidence that is.

Trixie splashes me with warm water, still giggling, and I try not to think at all.

_Did my hands ache until now? For fuck’s sake, I swear it!_ _  
__For I never saw so many unwashed dishes until this night._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From _Romeo & Juliet_ by William Shakespeare:
> 
>  _“Do not swear by the moon, for she changes constantly.  
>  then your love would also change.”_ \- Act 2, Scene 2.
> 
>  _“What's in a name? that which we call a rose  
>  By any other name would smell as sweet.”_ \- Act 2, Scene 2.
> 
>  _“Did my heart love till now? forswear it, sight!_  
>  For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night.” - Act 1, Scene 5.


	3. Act III - Thursday

* * *

_A plague on both your bakeries._

* * *

  
  


**BAZ**

The coffee machine is broken. For good, this time. It can only be an ill omen.

Perhaps that’s a rather floaty way of putting it. To be more precise, Gareth — assistant manager of fucking things up — has thoroughly re-broken the coffee machine, and in his ongoing attempts to fix it, is succeeding only in breaking it further.

This does _not_ bode well for the rest of the day.

_And yesterday was a disaster, too._

“Oi, Basil! Get over here and give me a hand, will you?”

“I’d much rather give you a punch.”

I snarl and trust the latent hatred to shine through. The look I’m going for is: _There is nothing I want less than to aid you in your dismantling of company equipment,_ though it doesn’t seem to reach through the miasma of baffling lunacy to touch any part of Gareth that matters. I end up on my knees before the dying coffee machine, trying to hold bits of it in place as all above me crumbles. It’s an apt metaphor for how my week is going.

I hardly said a word to Snow yesterday, after the bizarre jam doughnut conversation. Lunchtime was spent staring at the ceiling as Gareth bickered with himself and anyone who’d look his way about the new steak bake recipe. Snow munched his way through a limp salad, and was then whisked back to the kitchens by Trixie, who had him on dish duty all afternoon. Dev showed his face at four o’ clock, merely to announce that he was leaving early, and could we lock up for him? He didn’t seem to even realise Snow was there, which is perhaps for the best.

“What the bloody hell were you trying to achieve?” I cry, as a cog spins violently off the coffee machine to land amidst the butterfly cakes. “We won’t make it through an entire day without this blasted contraption, you _wretch._ We’re doomed.”

I’d hoped to catch Snow before he left work yesterday evening, but by the time I’d retrieved my coat from my locker — the padlock was stiff, trapped at an odd angle — he was long gone. Lost to the wind and rain of the city.

_Doomed. That does seem apt._

“Here, I’ve got it!” Gareth cries. “Hold still, unless you want your nose to bend the other way.”

He hits a suspect piece of plastic with a hammer procured from Gregory-knows-where, shatters it, then gives up.

“Nah, it’s fucked.”

“I can see that,” I say dryly.

Gareth smirks down at me. There’s a screw tangled in his hair. “Still, at least something around here’s close to getting fu—”

I let loose an animalistic cry of disdain, forcing myself upright and away from his jeering. He follows me because that’s the sort of awful creature he is.

_Exit, pursued by Gareth._

“Sorry, I forgot about your delicate sensibilities.” He pockets the hammer, smiling at me. “Look, I’ll pop home and fetch my kettle — my uni digs aren’t far. We can tell the customers we’re doing a gourmet trial or something, and make the coffee for them in the staff room. Don’t grass me up to Dev!”

“I ought to be writing an official incident report about this, never mind turning you in to my infernal cousin! We’ll be running back and forth all day,” I protest, knowing I’ll be doing no such thing, as I’m banned from all work of a culinary nature. I will be at the counter and Gareth’s bone idle — meaning the leg work will probably fall on Trixie. She’s got the enthusiasm, but does she have the stamina? “No. We must have the machine repaired immediately.”

“Look, I’ve thought it through — we’ll stick Dev on kettle duty and pass cups to Trixie through the door. Get some sort of human centipede going.”

“ _Human centipede?”_

“No, wait, wrong word. Conveyor! That’s the one. A human conveyor belt. You can call the repair bloke when we quiet down this afternoon, and it’ll be sorted by closing. Job’s a good ‘un.”

I stare at him but unfortunately, he does not burst into flames or otherwise vanish from reality. Gareth is a stain so awful he can only be permanent.

“ _The repair bloke._ Do you honestly think there’s a special man in an office somewhere, waiting by the amazing Greggs Phone for the chance to fly out and fix fucking _coffee machines?_ ” I sigh, holding up a broken bit of something or other. Gareth has long since backed away, tossing a screwdriver in amongst the rolling pins. “And don’t get me started on your ludicrous expectation that Devonshire Grimm would be caught dead serving a customer, in any capacity. Put that thing away and clean up after yourself. I believe there’s a loose nut somewhere in with the doughnuts — retrieve it and get your sorry arse into the kitchen. I suppose your horrible plan will have to do until this mythical _repair bloke_ appears, though I’ll be calling him as soon as we open. We’ll use the staff kettle until then.”

Usually Gareth is determined to argue with me every step of the way, but he sees some sense in the words. He turns to look through the glass doors and shudders — the zombie masses are already gathering, noses pressed to glass, gagging for their morning fill of sausage and too-flaky pastry.

“Good god, Baz,” he breathes, coffee splashed down his front like a negligent bloodstain. Does this man own no other apron? “They’re _here._ ”

I roll my eyes and push him to one side, unplugging the broken machine and looking for any sign of who I might contact to repair it. Perhaps a helpful bit of graffiti declaring REPAIR BLOKE WOZ EYA 2K7, or something of that nature. I find nothing.

“It’s your chap’s fault,” Gareth is saying, wrestling with his apron and tearing a secondary hole in his hairnet. Maybe that’s for his remaining brains to dribble out of. “ _He’s_ the reason I got distracted and punched the fucking thing. Two days! Two bloody days, Basil! Fucking sort it out, already.”

I glare at him. The last thing I want to talk about is how Gareth still can’t count — Friday night is tomorrow, lest we forget — and how I still don’t particularly want him to take me out and leave me to die in a Birmingham gutter. “What are you blathering on about? Get in the back before you cause any more damage.” I rummage around for paper and marker pen, hastily scrawling an OUT OF ORDER sign. (I don’t even use cursive; that’s how distraught I am at the rogue mention of _my chap_.)

“I’m telling you, it was Snow! He’s as mad for you as you are for him, and twice as fucking useless. He was out there this morning putting up his stupid chalky sign next to the ticket barriers. _Vanilla slices_ , _two for a pound. Stop in at the Bullring and ask nicely for Simon!_ Ain’t that what you gave him yesterday, when he was in here? I saw him stuffing his face by the washer. Didn’t even pay for it. He’s a lovesick prat with a marketing agenda, and really I should be telling Dev how —”

“You won’t be telling Dev anything,” I snap, trusting I sound grumpy enough to intimidate. I abandon my search for sellotape and balance the makeshift sign atop the machine. “I didn’t give Snow any such confection — that was Trixie’s meddling. She stole half a tray for her own amusement, and hid them by the sink.”

I stand by the entrance, staring past the disgruntled gathering of early risers. Across from our doors I see what Gareth was talking about — Snow’s sign, propped and angled so that I can read it easily. He’s spelt vanilla wrong.

VALNIA SLICES, TWO 4 a £££  
STOP!!! IN @ THE BULLRING GREGGS &  
ASK NICELY 4 SIMON :) :) (yes, you!!!!)

It should be charming, but it isn’t. Not immediately. _Stop in and ask nicely for Simon._

The first feeling that takes me is an ugly, twisting jealousy. It’s illogical, but it’s still early in the morning and I haven’t had time to find my better self yet. _He enjoyed Trixie’s cakes so much that he made a menu of it. He’s inviting all of Birmingham to stop by and ask for him personally._

The second, even uglier thought, is that Snow only came to my workplace yesterday to steal our secrets and divert our custom his way. It’s an unspoken agreement that both branches are trying to destroy the other — it’s the cutthroat nature of the modern High Street. _Vanilla custard slices that taste akin to heaven in your mouth? Best get a tray of our own out there into the world._ And at a price like _that?_ Not every weary traveller will trudge out of their way to take him up on it, but some will. Enough to leave a dent in our sales tallies for the day.

Simon Snow _doesn’t_ like me. Not in the way I’ve always liked him, quietly and without confidence. That can’t have been the case. Perhaps he likes Trixie, perhaps he doesn’t. Perhaps he was only ever interested in a profit.

He’s trying to _rob_ me. (Or Greggs. Which seems a hopeless cause, given we both work for the same nameless overlords.)

“Gareth,” I say quietly, wiping my hands. _Of the morning, of my foolish hope._ “Find me the phone number for a suitable repair company — we’re getting our coffee machine up and running by midday.”

I want to go outside and kick the sign over, though I won’t. I’d probably have to converse with a customer on the way. (Perish the thought.)

Gareth scurries off to do my bidding. Perhaps he senses my stormy mood as it develops — Trixie is the next brave soul to poke her head around the door, asking if we’re ready to open. She’s mildly less incandescent today — still colourful, but the shades are muted and pastel.

 _No,_ I think. “Yes,” I say. “But before we do, could you pop into the back and have a look in the store room? I’ve had a thought.”

If Snow wants a war on a Thursday morning, who am I to deny him?

And to think, I thought he came here to see me _._ He brought me a doughnut, he made thinly-veiled, highly sensual references to _fillings._ I had hoped, madly and admittedly without grounds, that he might be looking for a slice of something else. That he hadn’t come here to spy and lurk and report back on me to my infernal cousin’s ex-something.

Curse him for the crumbling pastry he’s made of me.

For a moment I consider whether I’m merely being swept up in the drama again. Then I glance at the sign with its open invitation and feel my heart sink further. _Down, down and done._

“Gareth,” I call as I unlock the doors. “Don’t worry about the bet — I concede. I’ll come out with you tomorrow night.”

His cry of victory echoes in my mind like a siren, high and cold and cruel.

* * *

_Love is a wound made with the fume of unwanted cream cakes._

* * *

**SIMON**

I’m elbows deep in a bowl of custard — not literally, I _am_ civil enough to use a spoon — when I realise what the kerfuffle is about. Rhys and Niall have been in the staff room for nearly ten minutes, muttering to each other. I thought it was just the usual Thursday morning conspiracy stuff, but apparently not. There’s something going on and they’re being sneaky about it, trying to see if I’m listening in.

“What is it?” I ask, rubbing at my eyes. I didn’t get much sleep last night — I was running over the day _not_ spent with Baz, trying to work out if it could’ve gone better. Or at least less bad than it did. I came to no firm conclusions.

I did have another idea, though. I wonder if Baz has noticed yet?

“Simon,” Niall says lightly, beckoning me over. He taps the back of a chair. “Have you heard what’s happening at New Street?”

My stomach lurches, attempts to do a back flip, then settles in on itself. I feel like I’ve been at sea for a week. I hold onto the door frame until I’ve wiped the worst of it from my face, then stagger over to them, messing with my apron.

I put our sign out in its usual spot this morning, in the walkway that connects the train station to the shopping centre. I tried to make it obvious that I’d been thinking about Baz — valnia slices, in honour of yesterday — and even included an invitation to come and see me. To _ask_ for me. (Nicely. Wink wink nudge nudge oi oi, how’s yer father.) I thought that if I can’t get word directly to Baz, maybe I can send him a message. A _secret_ message that he’d definitely decode, like a name punched into a padlock.

Alright, so it might backfire and bring half of Birmingham to my door as an unwanted side-effect, but on the off-chance he _does_ see my message and interprets it for what it is...well, it’ll be worth every unbearable conversation with a stranger. Every GIMME YER STEAK BAKES and WHERE’S THE FANTA???

Rhys and Niall are still gossiping, foreheads almost touching, faces bent over a phone screen. I watch the glow light their cheeks and then lean in, looking down at a photograph of a place I know all too well.

Greggs. Not _our_ Greggs — the other one. Baz’s Greggs. There’s the sign over the open doors, rain-flecked stones, golden light beckoning me in...can’t see any people or food from here, but they’re in there somewhere. It’s the _promise_ that we’re witnessing.

And something else. Niall traces a finger over it, glancing up at me.

“What’s the problem?” I ask, unsure of what I’m seeing. “Is that a table?”

Bloody hell. _Furniture?_ At a takeaway come-as-you-please-and-leave-quickly-cos-the-queue’s-taking-the-piss High Street bakery?

“Stools!” Rhys shouts, wasting a perfectly good muffin as it goes flying out of his hand, soaring through the open door to splat against the crisps rack. “What is this, some sort of continental dining experience? It’s a fucking sandwich shop, lads! Next best thing to fast food in the middle of arsing nowhere, England! What does a Greggs in these parts need _stools_ for?”

“Birmingham is hardly the middle of nowhere,” Niall sniffs. It’s weird how you take the piss out of a place your whole life, but as soon as someone else insults it, it’s game over. “It’s the second city.”

“Manchester would like a word,” Rhys retorts. It’s not his fault; the rogue furniture’s appearance would upset just about anybody. I’m feeling a fair bit of shock myself.

And it’s not just stools, I realise, as I sit elbow-to-elbow with 2018’s Runner-Up Best Manager of Greggs Sub-Division 14, and take in the scene. They’re _high_ stools, like the sort you see at a bar. And the tables are metal, easy to wipe clean — with wobbly legs, judging by how the wind’s bothering a woman perched at one, nibbling her omelette baguette. She’s got one foot on the ground to keep her balance. It’s an artistic photograph, really. A postmodern city centre sausage renaissance.

“When did this happen?” I ask, thinking back to this morning. The tables weren’t there when I put out the sign. Are they even allowed to _do_ this, just turn Greggs into a full-blown café on a whim? Should we tell Head Office? Did we miss a memo emailed at the crack of dawn? There’s no way we could fit tables in here...and the shopping centre wouldn’t let us take up extra space out front. I look again at the photo. “Did _you_ take the picture?”

Rhys nods enthusiastically. (Some might even say vindictively.)

It _is_ very cosmopolitan. The last place you’d expect to see café culture.

“Tables,” I say, just to hear it. To try and work out what it means. “They’ve put tables outside. People will sit at them. Take their time, spend more money.”

“Outrageous!” Niall exclaims. “They’re trying to steal our customers! After that nice gesture you made with the vanilla whats-its, too.” He squints at me suspiciously. “Hang about, yesterday you said there was nothing going on over there. You said they hadn’t got anything planned!”

My mind drifts back to the sign. At least it’s not raining today — my shitty lettering will remain legible. Baz has probably noticed it by now. (Gareth would definitely point it out. Maybe Dev, too, though I’m still not sure he actually exists outside of his boxy little office.) Maybe Baz took it the wrong way? We’re not trying to rip his Greggs off. I thought it could be a talking point at lunch time, when we’re at opposite ends of the bench. _Look what I spent all last night on. Do you want to try one of_ my _slices? I think I’d like that. Not in a sexy way. Just in a...I need an excuse to talk to you sort of way._

Maybe his colleagues have been putting daft ideas in his head. Gareth’s the sort to do that. What was all that weirdness about yesterday, when I gave him an innocent jam doughnut? Alright, so I _was_ supposed to be scoping out sabotage opportunities, but...I didn’t, did I? I was there to see Baz. I wish we could’ve talked more, so I’ve tried this sign idea, instead. It’s like passing notes without anyone seeing. Forbidden, you know. I thought I could lure him in for a visit, because asking him out directly is clearly off my mental menu.

And now this. Rhys is acting like there’s some sort of full-on bakery war breaking out. “The tables are the first stone cast, Si,” he says, waving a finger at the tuna baguettes, “and they’re the ones to chuck it! Remember this day! Everything that happens now is in self-defence. They made us do it.”

I shake my head, slipping off my apron and tossing it at him.

“If you’re going to be a prat, I’m leaving. It’s probably a corporate thing. You know, the Grand High Greg has commanded them to put tables out and see how many new faces it attracts.” He looks at me like I’ve committed high treason. “We all know their shop’s struggling for sales — come on, man. Let them have this.”

There’s a noise beyond the front doors. We move through to the shop floor, watching with dismay as a family of five walks past, eyeing the windows before talking loudly about _the_ _other one_ and _cosmopolitan seating area_. I can picture it now: mum’ll go inside to load up on food, relieved to have found a place to leave her shopping bags. She can give the kids over to dad for a bit, and then they can sit together and eat sensibly afterwards. No chaos, no tantrums. The tables are the indisputable reason she’ll choose their Greggs over ours.

“See,” Rhys says, moving his wheelchair over to the window. He jabs a finger against the glass, leaving a smudge. Niall tuts to no avail. “It’s a _tactic_. They know we don’t have space for tables and chairs, and they’re laughing at us. It’s vindictive.”

“Nah, they’re not like that. Baz isn’t like that.”

He pulls a face at me. Niall joins in. A whole world of professionalism, these two.

“Go over there and see what it’s about,” Niall suggests slyly, nudging me towards the door. He hands me my apron, looking solemn. It takes me five minutes to undo the knot in it and pull it over my head, which dulls the moment.

“No. I don’t want to.”

“As your manager, I command you.”

“This isn’t fucking _Star Wars_ , Niall.”

“If you say so,” he says grimly. “ _Please._ For me. I need to know what Grimm is up to.”

I frown, flattening my hair even though the wind’s probably going to fuck it up within the next five seconds. Then I swallow down whatever protests I’m thinking of making, and meekly agree.

“Do your job this time,” Niall mutters darkly, eyes flicking to his phone again. “We need real information. No more larking about in the staff room with your fancy man.”

My shoulders slump. “Maybe they’re doing a trial run with the tables. It’ll be back to normal tomorrow.”

Neither of them are listening to reason. The rivalry’s driven them mad.

We watch forlornly as another group of passers-by steer away from our doors towards the sanctuary of New Street station. Anyone would think Baz had rolled out the red carpet for a brand new meal deal or something. _All you can eat steak bake buffet!_ (Not going to lie, I’d be all over that like a rash.)

“Alright then,” I say, more for my own benefit than theirs. “I’ll go and have a look. See what’s happening.”

I feel their eyes on me as I go. I shouldn’t be this nervous about a simple conversation, but I am. And I’m aware that I don’t have a cake or anything nice to act as a cushion this time — it’s just me, walking down the street in the middle of my shift to ask the sour-faced man I fancy what the bloody hell he’s playing at. Does he _want_ us to go out of business? Does he want there to be no one waiting for him on our bench?

My sign’s disappeared. That’s the first thing I notice as I approach the station. People have messed with it before, scrubbing off the message to leave clever insights of their own...but who would actually want to nick a rickety old thing like that?

The other Greggs appears ahead, its lighted sign drawing me in. I take a noseful of familiar smells, realising I’ll have to wait my turn as the group in front of me try to buy up every last roast chicken baguette this side of the M6. By the time I’ve watched Baz pass to and fro behind the counter five or six times, spatula whipping out at all angles as he slides edible things into paper bags, gloves changed and coffee passed through a hole in the wall — wait, was that hole there yesterday? What’s wrong with their machine? — I’ve lost half the nerve I’d managed to gather.

When it’s my turn to speak, instead of saying something useful, I point at the tables outside and say, “Feeling ambitious, were we?”

And he’s looking at me like he wants to put my face out of its own misery with a rolling pin.

Oh. So we _are_ in a fight. (Was anyone going to let me know?)

“What are you talking about?” he snarls, pacing to the far end of the counter. He’s already blushing; he’s already furious. _Nice one, Simon._ “Never eaten at a table like a civilised person?”

I dimly remember that it’s meant to be _me_ attacking _him_. David vs Goliath, that sort of thing. (He’s a lanky fucker, I stand by it.)

“No, I’m more into benches.”

The look on his face. Oh fuck.

This is getting out of hand.

“They weren’t there before,” I add.

He looks at me as if I’ve just told him the sky is green.

“Oh, really? Tell me something I _didn’t_ know.”

“Well,” I begin. My head hurts. “I don’t know what you don’t know.”

He sneers and I get a good look at his teeth. He must have a wonderful dentist. Then he’s turning to shout at one of his colleagues who’s walking out with a tray of wobbly coffee cups.

“Is there something wrong with your machine?” I ask, which seems to piss him off more, because the answer is obviously yes.

“Here to rub it in, Snow? I suppose _your_ branch has its own small batch gourmet coffee artist coming in once a week to grind your bloody beans for you.”

Wait. What? What’s he going on about?

“I can bloody well grind my own beans, thank you very much!”

(He can’t be talking about baked beans. Would he still give me a discount if I asked for a bean melt? All this emotional turmoil’s making me hungry.)

“Tell me why you’re here,” he sneers, in that sneery way of his.

And if I didn’t think he’d woken up hating me this morning, I’d say he looked nervous.

“The tables,” I say again, feeling like they might be turning. “What’s that about? They weren’t there before. The lads —”

“The _lads?_ ” Baz jeers, crossing his arms. He’s wearing a long sleeve shirt that’s loose on him — I can only see the ends of his fingers, poking out from the sleeves. “Pray be more specific.”

Now he sounds jealous as well as nervous.

“Well, Rhys. Niall. And...that’s it, but whatever. They’ve got a commanding presence.”

Baz rolls his eyes and turns his back on me, pretending to fuss with pots of cold soup. A man comes in loudly demanding a sausage roll before he drops dead of a hangover right here and now — on a Thursday, mate? What the bloody hell’s going on there? — and Baz slides swiftly behind the counter again, adjusting his hairnet.

I stand, tapping my foot and stewing silently until he’s done. Where’s the rest of the staff? Can’t someone else come and watch the counter so we can talk?

All this time, and I just wanted to _talk._ I finally get his attention and it’s turning into a flipping argument again. About tables!

“I am not surprised to learn that _Niall Norbury,_ of all the idiots currently occupying this planet, is behind this.”

Even though he’s a prat, I feel like I should be defending him. Niall _does_ print my payslip.

“Maybe he wouldn’t be plotting if your cousin would have an actual conversation with him!”

I’ve got no idea what went on between Dev and Niall, and I don’t particularly want to know. But maybe the bit about _actual conversation_ will ring a bell deep within Baz. (Deep, deep within.)

He looks me dead in the eye. “You’ve come to my workplace to harass me about furniture. Don’t pretend this is about anything else.”

_Don’t pretend._

_Baz. What_ is _this about?_

“The tables outside,” I sigh, giving up. What’s the point? I’ve been reading too far into things for six months, apparently. (And all that reading is very unlike me.) “Are you trying to put us out of business? Yes or no. I’ll give Niall the good news, and then I’ll leave you alone.”

He leans against a glass case filled with iced buns and Danishes, though there’s nothing sweet about the look on his face. “You’re ridiculous. Head Office asked us to put them out — we’re trying something new. A trial run to see how it goes. Perhaps all branches will have tables in the future — or rather, those with ample room.”

He tries to say it casually, but we both know he’s the least casual thing this side of the packed salads.

“On a Thursday,” I say, unconvinced. “A table trial.”

“On a Thursday!” his smarmy little mate says, magically appearing in time to serve the next customer their croissants and tea. “Two days, Basilton! Are you two getting along nicely?”

“ _One_ day,” Baz grinds through his teeth.

I frown. “The fuck are you talking about?”

Baz huffs, looking everywhere but at me. “Well, there it is. It seems even _you_ manage to blindly do as management tells you.”

“I _am_ the manager,” I say, in my best most non-managerial voice. “Sort of. On Fridays, when Niall isn’t there. Assistant manager!”

Baz flushes a deep, endearing red and takes a step towards me. I should step back to keep things professional — I’m wearing my apron, so am I technically on duty? — but I don’t. I stand my ground.

“Where’s my sign?”

“What?” he snaps. Behind him, Gareth’s looking shifty. Maybe I’m laying the blame on the wrong person. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Again. That seems to be a pattern.”

“The sign!” I shout, pointing behind me towards the walkway. “I put it out this morning.”

He’s sneering again, gearing up to say something inflammatory, when there’s a screech from over his shoulder, and Gareth starts doing a weird dance in time with the coffee machine’s dying ambition. The customer at the counter says she only needed hot water for tea, not an entire performance, and Trixie appears as though summoned with another cup on a tray.

“Is your coffee machine actually broken?” I ask. This seems more important than arguing about tables. I feel the anger leave me quickly — I’d never want Baz to have a hard day. “I know a bloke who can fix it. That’s his company’s name, FIXED IT! He came out for ours last month. His name’s —”

“We already have a repairman on the way,” he snipes, cutting me off. His eyes narrow, and he seems to be almost enjoying the challenge. (Is that what I am to him? Is that what this is?) “Not that it’s any of _your_ business. More information for your manager, I suppose — he’ll be delighted to hear we’re in dire straits.” He hesitates. “Did you really march over here to confront me about seating arrangements?”

 _No,_ I think but don’t say.

_I wanted to see you._

The upset tea customer hurries out of the shop, leaving Trixie to shout after her in apology. Baz pretends nothing unusual is happening and straightens the crisp packets, which are already immaculately stacked.

“I don’t know what this table thing is about,” I say, glancing through the open doors. They slide shut and everything’s dimmer. “And the sign doesn’t matter. Not really.” He still won’t look at me. “You don’t have to do everything Mr Gregory says, you know. Trust me, I’m practically a manager, and nobody bloody well does what I say.”

Baz’s face contorts, then twists with what’s most likely outrage.

“Hang on. Who the bloody hell is _Mr Gregory?”_

“The big boss,” I say. “Greg at Head Office. Greggs. Mr Gregory? He signs all the emails.”

The look he gives me. I could die. (And not in a good way.) ( _Is_ there a good way?)

“The owner of _Greggs_ is not called _Gregory_ , you blight!”

“Are you sure? Pretty sure that’s his name. That’s how it works. Is Millie’s Cookies not owned by Millie?”

“No, I believe it’s —”

“Next you’ll tell me Cornish pasties don’t contain corn.”

“They tend not to! What are you — where the bloody hell were you raised?”

He’s marching towards me in a storm of ill intent, and I’m backing away, catching my leg on the edge of a chiller cabinet. (Strawberry Ribena! Haven’t had any in years! I wonder if —) Then before I can do much about it he’s pressing up against me, one hand curling into the front of my apron and the other pointing to the door. His name badge is digging into my shoulder, and his breath’s hot on my cheek, and I —

I think I like this better than baking.

“Snow,” he hisses. “You’ve driven me to this. I have you shouting in one ear, and Gareth squawking about _two fucking days_ in the other. I can’t _take_ it anymore. I —”

But wherever he’s going is ruined by that very same Gareth, who lobs a stale cob at Baz’s head, smacking him on the ear. In the madness that follows — the Ribena goes flying, let’s put it that way — I stagger towards the doors, colliding with a couple of teenagers who came looking for a snack, and will leave with a few indelible memories of one Gregg worker beating another half to death with the merchandise.

 _The tables,_ I think. _Two wobbly tables and the whole world’s tipped upside down._

I think I _will_ call that bloke about Baz’s coffee machine, from the safety of my own shop. Even though Baz won’t want me to, and even though it’ll probably make things worse. It’s the least I can do after fucking up his Thursday.

It’s the least I can do after fucking up _everything._ I don’t even know what I’ve done.

I stumble away without looking back, and I never do find out where my sign went.

I tell myself I’ll leave him alone after this. Maybe it wasn’t meant to be?

But my name. My name was his locker combination.

My name, on his lips.

_These aching hours seem so long._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From _Romeo & Juliet_ by William Shakespeare:
> 
>  _"A plague on both your houses._ \- Act 3, Scene 1.
> 
>  _“Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs.”_ \- Act 1, Scene 1.
> 
>  _"Ay me! sad hours seem long."_ \- Act 1, Scene 1.


	4. Act IV - Friday

* * *

_I defy you, Greggs!_

* * *

  
  


**BAZ**

The last day. The last day is here, and the long night beyond it.

I am woefully unprepared.

There’s another fucking banner draped across one wall of the staff room today, courtesy of Gareth the birthday boy, who apparently has nothing better to do with his waning days on this planet than torment me. He must be delighted that it’s come to this — Baz Pitch, son of a balding university professor (sorry father, the comb-over isn’t fooling anyone), owing him money and lunch. Being in his debt, both financially and socially.

He’s going to take me out tonight. He’s going to, as he put it, get me _shit-faced._

He’s going to help me forget Simon Snow.

Not only did I manage to cheat myself out of fifty pounds and three steak bakes with yesterday’s little outburst, but I also managed to completely ruin any chances I had of telling Snow how I feel in a mature, reasonable way. From here on out there can be only tension and childish prattling. It was written in the custard I pushed my hands into afterwards, tears dripping like melted icing.

There is, I suppose, _one_ slim hope remaining.

I left something on the bench in No Man’s Land for him to find. An apology, in the form of that which Snow loves best. There’s no guarantee he’ll find it — Needless Alley is a culinary battleground for the city’s warring pigeon and squirrel populations — but I hope that he will.

_Think of me as I try desperately not to think of you._

On the bench is a paper bag containing two of my finest sausage rolls and what surely is, by now, the world’s coldest and stodgiest bean melt. (I’ve no doubt Simon Seagull will still gulp it down, regardless.) (There _was_ also an apology. I wrote _Sorry, or in your language: SOZ_ on a sticky note and stuck it to the bag.)

I’m standing by the glass doors as we open, nosy and also rightfully concerned, because there’s a good chance that either a pigeon or a squirrel, or both working as one unstoppable team, will get to No Man’s Land before Snow does. Lunchtime feels a long way off.

For a moment, I imagine I catch a glimpse of him beyond the glass doors. But then he’s gone and I fancy it was only a reflection, a shade of what might have been.

I’m snapped from my thoughts by Gareth, who has fashioned himself a sash bearing the words _ONE DAY AND YER DONE! HAPPY BDAY TO ME!_ over his apron, ensuring he remains an eternal talking point.

“Oi, Pitch! Still on for tonight, aren’t we? Want to give us a hand?”

I turn, glancing mournfully at the packaged sandwiches and bottled drinks, wondering why the colour seems to have drained from the day.

“Yes. Fine. Do as you please.”

Then I notice the unfamiliar man standing behind the counter, taking a spanner and screwdriver to our beleaguered coffee machine.

“Are you…” I begin, taking an unsteady step. The man’s wearing a coat with two words across the back — _FIXED IT!_ — and I come to a juddering halt. “The repair bloke.”

“You what?” Gareth asks, stunned, as if I’ve never deigned to utter the word _bloke_ before. ( _Have_ I?) “This is Daz. He’s here to fix the machine. Your chap sent him — no charge! I always said he was sound, didn’t I? They’re not so bad, those other ones.”

_My chap. Other ones. No charge._

I think of a fast cooling bag of food on a bench outside. A hastily scrawled note and an inedible bean melt.

I think of him yesterday, distraught as I ripped into him for no good reason. Was I wrong about his intentions? Perhaps I ought to retrieve his precious sign from the skip Gareth dumped it in.

How severely have I messed things up?

“Baz, bring the tables in before we open, will you? Pigeons shat all over them in the night.”

I nod and say I’ll get right to it. I’ve no heart for an argument. Trixie skips in from the locker room and says she’ll help me.

“Fine,” I say, glancing at the man’s coat again. _Fixed it._ “Have this finished before Dev arrives — he doesn’t need to hear about any of this.”

Gareth grins, grateful to have been let off the hook on this, the day of his birth. I spend longer than I need to staring at the repairman’s back, wondering what this might mean.

_He wants to fix things. Even if it's only my corporate coffee machine. Even if we were long overdue for a replacement anyway._

I want to believe there’s deeper meaning to it, some sort of metaphor I can grasp with feeble fingers. I go outside to gather the rain-flecked tables and chairs, letting my eyes drift inevitably towards where New Street curves off into darkness, the mouth of Needless Alley an open yawn.

There’s a bench there. Perhaps it’s empty. Perhaps it was never anything but.

Before I can overthink things further, I’m abandoning Trixie to our task and staggering up the street, ripping my hairnet from my head as I go. The wind and rain pushes at me from all directions.

I reach No Man’s Land — there’s the bench, free of local wildlife, though as I step closer I realise it _isn’t_ empty. Not quite. There’s a paper cup wrapped in a cardboard sleeve, emblazoned with a familiar logo.

On top of the lid, flapping in the wind, is a scrap of paper held down with sellotape:

_Hope Dazza gets it fixed_ _  
__Cheers for the sausage rolls_ _  
__(can we talk?)_

I hold the note between my fingers, coffee warming my other hand. I sip the drink and obviously it’s atrocious. Burnt and too sweet and devoid of all depth of flavour. But I drink it anyway, and I know I’ll finish the whole cup. (The food is gone — I hope Snow was the scavenger, and not the squirrels.)

It’s not even nine o’ clock yet. It’s Friday, meaning Snow won’t appear before me to order lunch. Am I really to wait an entire weekend to see him again?

He wants to make amends. That must be what this means.

A sliver of doubt curls in my stomach.

_What if he merely wants another go, after yesterday? After you turned to ice what might have been warming between you both._

I stand, windswept and speechless, in the middle of the alleyway. A bicycle passes me, two laughing teenagers trying to read a book as they walk.

For a moment I consider it quite seriously — marching down the street to the shopping centre, asking if yesterday’s chalk-scrawled offer still stands. _I’m asking for Simon. The sign told me to._

But I think of Gareth and his birthday and the promise I made. The shop will be busy with customers soon enough, and I’ve a job to do before then. Simon Snow and his valnia slices will have to wait. What’s one more weekend, after the many days I’ve wasted?

I turn away from the Bullring and head back towards the train station.

In my pocket, fingers curl around a scrap of paper.

* * *

_My only love sprung from my only wildly inappropriate preoccupation  
with a man who cannot tie his bloody apron properly. _

* * *

**SIMON**

“I like your hairnet.”

I stare into the mirror, resisting the urge to slap myself.

_Of all the things to say, my brain goes to hairnets? That’s not going to get me very far, is it?_

I sigh, staring down at my hands. In a storm of absolute panic I slathered them in hand cream, and now it’s like I’ve lost my grip on life.

Niall heard something on the Greggs dark web today. (That’s not a thing. It’s a managerial group chat.) He said that the New Street lot are going out tonight to celebrate Gareth’s birthday, and it’s going to be a messy one. It’s considered basic bakery etiquette to invite the other branch out when one of us does something, so Niall has taken grave offence that we haven’t received an e-invite, or at least a dismissive text message.

 _“They don’t want us there,”_ he raged, dropping a perfectly good veggie pastie on the floor, peas flying like regrets. _“First the table stunt, and now this! They’re pushing us out, Si. Dev Grimm is laughing behind our backs.”_

I tried to tell him it probably wasn’t anything personal. (And to be honest, this Dev is a bit of an elusive character. If he really had it in for us, he would’ve shown his face by now.) If Gaz only wants to go out with his immediate colleagues, what say do we have in that? But Niall was all wound up about this _deadly Greggs exclusionary clique culture_. He said if we let them get away with it tonight, they’ll do it again — make themselves out to be Big Name Bakers, while we’re stuck here begging for scraps.

_“Next thing you know they’ll be attending functions at Head Office without us, Simon. Not even our sausage rolls are safe with this lot around.”_

I resist pointing out that Niall’s real problem might be that he hates the thought of Dev doing anything vaguely fun without him, and if only the two of them could sit down and hash things out, relations between our two branches would improve. There’d be less of the madness, and more cooperation. Maybe they’d even let us borrow one of their wobbly tables — and I’d be more than happy to draw them a sign. Shout about Baz’s amazing ring doughnuts, for the whole city to see.

But things can never be simple. This I know.

Trapped in a bakery blood war with no origin and no end.

Out on the shop floor, I pack sandwiches onto shelves and make sure all the fizzy pop labels are facing out at exactly the same angle. Rhys asks me what I’m going to wear tonight when we _gatecrash the enemy gathering and enact The Great Confrontation_ , and I want to ask if he thinks Baz will be there, but that’ll give the game away. Not that they don’t already know I’ve got a stupid crush, but still. I need to at least _pretend_ to retain a crumb of pride.

I’ll go out tonight. It can’t hurt. (Well, knowing Niall Norbury, it definitely _can_ hurt.) If Baz isn’t there, then that’s fine. I’ll see him on Tuesday when I go to New Street to buy my lunch.

He left something for me in Needless Alley. Most of it had been pecked to shit by the time I got to it, but the sticky note was there. His handwriting’s nice and loopy. I left something for him and asked if he wanted to talk, but I don’t know. Maybe he’ll chuck my note in the bin.

I’ll go to this party and make sure Niall doesn’t start the Sausage World War. And if I see Baz, then that’s great. I can lean against the bar and try to look cool. (No way am I fucking dancing; the world doesn’t need a Macarena resurgence.)

Niall says they’re going to this club called the Magic Box. I don’t know how he knows that, but he’s good at learning things against other people’s will, so he’s probably right. I’ve never been before. I don’t go out much, really — just to work and uni and my flat.

Maybe a change of scenery will be good?

* * *

_“Peace? I hate the word as I hate hell and all Bullring Greggs employees.” - Dev Grimm_

* * *

**BAZ**

Midnight approaches and music shakes the walls. It feels as though the floor is heaving, rocking me to and fro like waves against the hull of a boat.

I can’t remember the last time I stepped foot inside a nightclub. (Willingly. In his crueller moments, my cousin has dragged me through their gaping maws.)

The Magic Box appeared in Birmingham six months ago, sandwiched between a dentist’s surgery and a curry house, like the Discworld’s own Wandering Shop. In daylight you can’t be entirely certain it was ever there — but at night the lights are neon, and these violent delights are never ending.

The floor’s sticky; every step I take feels like wading through Marmite. There are so many _bodies_ , moving in time with a beat that goes right over my head. Gareth’s here, of course, blazing his way through the crowd, lapping up all offered attention. We follow in his wake, though “we” is rather a paltry gathering — only Trixie and Dev from work, a few unknowns from his wider life. He seems happy, though. Not at all disappointed with the turnout. He leads us towards a bar at the back of the club and leans insolently, like a king surveying his hunting grounds.

“Gonna be a messy night, lads and lasses. You ready?”

 _No,_ I think, _absolutely not._

“Let’s do this,” Dev says, a vision in a ghoulish tracksuit, bedazzled with diamante at the elbows. He’s got his hair slicked back the way I used to wear it, and the overall effect is that of a vengeful black gel pen.

Instead of ruining my cousin’s night — he’ll manage that for himself at some point or other — I try to locate my misery in the bottom of a shot glass, following it up with what the label declares is an “alcopop”, but what I suspect might actually be watered-down window cleaning fluid.

All around us is music and movement. Trixie emotionally blackmails me into shuffling my feet for a handful of excruciating minutes, which is mortifying and also hugely unsuccessful. The shuffle turns into a stumble, and then I’m _flailing_ , which is doubly upsetting. No, dancing isn’t for me; it’s best I remain by the bar, where a solid surface can hold me up. I can pretend it’s the counter at work and torture myself with the memory of sliding a sausage roll into Simon’s waiting hand.

Gareth slides against me — by the gods, is that a flashing birthday belt buckle? — and asks if there’s anyone I fancy the look of. I turn away, because of course there isn’t — there’s only one person I like, and he isn’t here.

I shy from the scene. This was a mistake. The night moves around me whilst I stand still.

_Go home. Spare yourself such foolishness; wait for Tuesday, and whatever words Simon Snow has in mind._

“What’s eating you?” Dev asks, making quick work of his (third? fourth?) beer. “Gaz has been looking forward to this for months. I won’t have him crowding the group chat with depressing memes for the rest of the year — drink up, sunshine.”

I look down at the blue WKD in my hand, then place it on the bar.

“I don’t feel well,” I say, stepping into the mass of quivering limbs. “I’m going outside for a moment.”

Dev lets me go. I feel his eyes, hot against my back.

Resolved, and more than a bit wobbly, I slip away from the club without disturbing Gareth in his celebrations. He’ll soon forget I was here — I’ve the natural social presence of a shopping list, or something else easily forgotten. A date of birth, an important place and time. He’ll get absolutely spannered without me, the urban legend of his much-hyped night-out destined to do the rounds at work tomorrow morning. I look forward to reliving it via Trixie’s frenzied storytelling.

But for now, the night must have me. The night, and nothing more.

It’s with great relief that I step out onto the kerb, tasting the night air as it hits my lungs, a heave against my rib cage. Inside the Magic Box is musty, a haze of glitter and debauchery that awaits those who linger too long in its darkest corners — already my mind feels clearer, outside and under the cloudy night sky.

I look left along the street, then right. There’s a group of people approaching the club, holding up traffic as they step off the pavement at the wrong time, a chorus of car horns documenting their wavering, weaving progress.

“Wahey!” comes a voice, one that’s regrettably familiar. “What’s this, then? A New Streeter, leaving so soon?”

It’s Niall. Dev’s former partner in crime. (And I mean that quite literally, but they’re reformed men now, and we needn’t digress.) He looks dreadful — and by that I mean he’s dressed to kill and out for confrontation, though not necessarily in that order. He’s wearing a _suit_ , of all things, which seems rather too much for the Magic Box — but then, this isn’t any old Friday night, is it? It’s an occasion. An event. It’s a four-act tragedy in the making.

“Gareth’s inside,” I say carefully, eyes taking in the rest of the group. It’s the usual sea of faces. “Though I don’t think you’re here to spread birthday cheer, are you?”

Niall doesn’t reply. To this day I’m not entirely sure what transpired between him and my cousin all those years ago, but it clearly didn’t end well.

“Having a good time in there, is he?”

We’re not talking about Gareth.

“He’s getting drunk at the bar.”

Niall snorts, glaring at the open doors. There’s movement behind him; I recognise those curls.

Snow. Snow’s here, peering at me from behind Rhys. Mouth hanging open, presumably so he can breathe as loudly as possible. Eyes on me, finding my own.

“Who cares what state he’s getting himself into?” Niall sniffs, though his face betrays him as he scours the club’s entrance again, hoping to catch sight of a certain lanky pair of legs, or latch onto the scent of vague dismay that follows his nemesis wherever he goes. It strikes me how exhausting this is, how laborious it’s been, watching the two of them tear the rest of us apart. “I’m not here for _him._ ”

Immediate protests rise up within his group. Rhys assures me that we are, in fact, most _definitely_ here for Gareth’s birthday celebrations.

“Niall’s offended we weren’t invited,” he explains, though he convinces precisely no one.

“Don’t tell him that!” Niall snaps, troubling his lip. He looks at me, sizing me up. “He’s the enemy.”

“No he’s not.”

There’s no mistaking who says it. Eyes swivel and Snow steps back, abashed. I feel a swell of what might be bravery (or recklessness). I take a step of my own, fixing their ringleader with the most imperious look I can muster.

“You can go in there and ruin things beyond repair,” I say, watching Niall for a reaction. There’s none. A book that’s unreadable mainly, I suspect, because the words within it make no bloody sense. “Or you can try to fix something. To repair it.”

 _FIXED IT!,_ I think, scrawled across the back of a man’s coat. 

Niall mumbles something I’d rather not repeat, then shuffles towards the nightclub’s open doors, hands reaching for his ID to appease the glum-looking bouncers. Rhys follows with the rest of the Bullring cohort, and I’m left staring at my shoes as Snow passes closest to me, humming under his breath.

“Go on,” I say quietly, “you’d best get in there. It might be a bloodbath or a scandalous display of public affection — either way, it’ll be a scene.”

He laughs. Quietly, a little nervously.

“Could I talk to you first? I left you a note.”

My hands work their way into pockets, and then I’m smoothing out a scruffy scrap of paper, the words almost rubbed to nothing. I’ve carried them with me all day, just to check they were real. To be sure they were still there.

_Can we talk?_

“Yes,” I say, breathlessly. “Yes, we can.”

I run my fingers through the ends of my hair. For a moment I worry I forgot to remove my hairnet after finishing work — it’s not the sort of thing to make a Magic Box patron flinch, but I’d still rather Snow not see me that way. (After hours, I mean. At work it’s proper procedure and you can pry my hairnet from my cold, dead hands.)

Sometimes Snow wears _his_ hairnet to No Man’s Land. I’ve no idea if he realises; I’ve never asked. I find it charming.

“I wanted to say thank you,” he says, all too earnestly. I imagine we’re there now, on the bench between his place and mine. Him at one end and myself at the other, gradually closing the distance. I’d much rather be there than here, in the dark on a dingy side street, music thumping wordlessly behind me.

But then, Snow is _here_. So really, where _would_ I rather be?

“Thank me for what?” I whisper, my throat raw from my misguided foray into alcopops. I cough into my hand and try again. “You needn’t thank me, Snow.”

He’s wearing a shirt with buttons. Perhaps I shouldn’t be so amazed, but I am — he wears t-shirts under his apron at work. T-shirt, jeans, trainers that have seen things I can’t imagine. He stands three paces away from me with his back straight and arms folded, and though this isn’t exactly how I imagined it, at least it’s happening. We’re talking.

“I wanted to thank you for the sausage rolls,” he says, as though the words are rehearsed. Was he staring hopelessly into a mirror before coming out tonight, as I was? All the things he hasn’t said, running through his head like Tatu on repeat. I catch the edge of his cologne as the wind whips our way — smoke, charcoal. Unbearably sweet, underneath. “They were good.”

Of course they were good. I always give him my best.

“You’re welcome,” I say gently, hoping he took the gesture for what it was — a _sorry for stealing your sign_. A _sorry for almost shoving you into the sandwiches._ A _sorry for being an insufferable git._ A bridge, a branch, a light.

“Did you get the coffee?” he asks, knowing full well I must have. (I suppose it’s possible the drink could have been spilt by an over-enthusiastic pigeon.)

“Yes,” I say, smiling. “It was disgusting.”

He smiles, openly and beautifully, and something warm floods through me.

 _There we are,_ I think. _Where we were before. Where we were heading, at the start of this week._

I think about Gareth’s countdown, the signs scattered around the shop and across my locker, and wonder if this was what it was leading to. Irrevocably, irretrievably _this._

“How’d Darren do?” he asks, and it takes me a moment to adjust and understand what he’s asking.

_FIXED IT. Repair bloke. Daz._

“Your repairman did an adequate job.” I say it with a smile, so he’ll know I’m being deliberately obtuse. “Tell me, is he retaining you on some sort of commission basis? Is this a clever way of generating income for your bakery?”

And just like that, the ice is broken. Snow relaxes into another easy, irresistible smile, and we’re no longer standing in a stilted silence — he walks with me along the street, finding a cold, empty bench to sink onto. It’s not _our_ bench, it’s hardly No Man’s Land — but it’s ours for now. I watch people filter in and out of the Magic Box and wonder how things might be going in there. How Dev might react when he sets his sights on Niall Norbury in a suit.

Explosive might not cover it.

(As if to confirm this, there’s a shriek of wild laughter from the doorway and Trixie appears, cackling something about _right there on the bloody bar, can you believe it?!_ )

“You can owe me a favour,” Snow grins, looking me up and down. I try not to read too far into what such a favour might entail. I realise I’ve missed this — this easy antagonism, the two of us picking at each other. Feeling like I’ve got a thousand things to say and it all comes wrapped in a heartfelt insult.

Flirting. That’s what this is.

And I had never anticipated he might have been flirting back.

Then, perhaps because the WKD made me do it, or because it feels like tonight’s the night for magic after all, I say something that sparks.

“I must apologise for yesterday, Snow. My behaviour was unacceptable.” He tries to interrupt but I raise a hand. The words are here, finally, and I’ll see them laid out between us like a hand of cards. “You see, I haven’t been entirely truthful with you. I’ve been lying.”

_To you, to myself._

_An actor doing his best to pull the next line from thin air._

He sits on his hands and looks at me.

“Wish I hadn’t eaten those sausage rolls earlier,” he mutters. “Feel a bit sick. Or maybe that’s part of the plan?”

His smile is wry, and so is mine. “Yes Snow,” I say sarcastically. “That was precisely my plot — stick you full of pastry and watch you be your own undoing.”

He shrugs. “It’d be a fair tactic. Low effort, maximum pay-off.”

We both laugh, and the ice cracks further. It’s painless, now. It’s _right._

“It’s alright,” he says, after quiet. “I’m sorry, as well. Haven’t exactly been honest with you, have I? The amount of times Niall and Rhys sent me in there, trying to spy…”

I roll my eyes. “Oh don’t worry, I was suffering alongside you. Gareth and his infernal countdown, honestly…the _pressure_.”

“Countdown?”

I raise an eyebrow, trapping him with a smirk. “His birthday is a community event, didn’t you know? He’s been tormenting me with the disappearing days for months. I only hope it was worth it.” I hesitate, feeling further confession gathering. “In hindsight, I question what he was truly counting down to — and I wonder if leaving it to the last day was genius or a mistake. But I should tell you…”

“The last day?” He’s frowning. It’s a default expression for him; oh what it must be like, to be lost in the bewildering soup that is Simon Snow’s mind. “Last day of what?”

I look at him. What else can I do?

_Tell him. Confess all, and let the crumbs fall where they may._

“I like you,” I hear myself say, and it’s as if the words come from another’s lips. It can’t truly be _me_ sitting here, can it? Baz Pitch, making himself emotionally available. “I like you more than I should, more than is sensible or logical or decent. And it’s not about proving Dev and Niall wrong, I can assure you of that —”

“— prove them wrong about what? Niall’s wrong about a lot of things.”

“— it’s just that I can’t go a single day longer without telling you.”

We sit together in the quiet that follows. Two girls stumble past, laughing about _the sort-of-sexy deathmatch_ currently occurring on the Magic Box’s dance floor. I watch Simon from the corner of my eye and wait for something, anything. I wonder what he’s thinking.

* * *

_Give me my steak bake again._

* * *

**SIMON**

I don’t have a bloody clue what I’m thinking.

I mean, I _do_. I know that I like Baz twice as much as he likes me, and I know that it’s nice, hearing him say it. _Talking_ to him. There’s a lot of crucial stuff there, nestled in Baz’s confession, but there’s one bit in particular my mind travels back to.

_The last day. What does that mean, beyond it being Gareth’s birthday?_

_He better not be going somewhere else. Is Greg transferring him? He_ can’t.

_Not when we might be getting somewhere._

“Go back a bit,” I tell him. “What do you mean, left it until the last day? What was left?”

I find the balls to look him in the eye — he’s windswept and moody. He looks like this at work sometimes, like Heathcliff with an apron on. I wait for him to tell me that he’s leaving — that this is our last time meeting here like this in Not Quite No Man’s Land. (Hey, that’s a good name for our bench!) He’s been recruited by one of the fancy bakeries near Brindley Place, and I’ll be stuck here, watching business slowly slip away as New Street Greggs steals our regulars, one by one. My heart won’t be in it, without him behind the counter.

_My name was your combination._

_I’m the key, Baz. I think that means something._

“It’s nothing,” he replies, tucking his hair behind his ears. “I had a...trifling wager. With Gareth. About you.”

“A what? I like trifle.”

The surprise must show in my face — he’s immediately raising his hands to assure me of something I haven’t guessed at.

“Nothing sordid, I promise. I’d just...accidentally divulged my feelings, you see. Not my feelings about _him_ — Christ no, rather...how I felt about _you._ In a moment of weakness I’ll never truly wrap my head around, I told him. He was displeased, of course — part of tonight was meant to be me, moving on. He gave me a certain amount of time to confide in you, or…”

I nod, understanding. “I get it. Classic _confess or make payment in beans and pastry_ bet — we’ve all been there. How much was it worth?”

He seems surprised I’d ask. “Fifty pounds and three steak bakes.”

I nod approvingly. Could’ve been worse. I’d take that bet. And anyway, this means…

“You’ve won then, right? If today was the last day. You told me. Can we split the steak bakes?”

Baz looks stunned. I don’t think he’d thought this far. I don’t think _I’ve_ thought this far ahead — everything feels like it’s slowed down, the world turned to treacle. My brain’s still processing the idea of Baz actually _liking_ me. So this wasn’t him demonstrating contempt for me, this past week? This is what he’s like when he _fancies_ someone?

I’m rethinking the jam doughnut/custard slice stand-off. Baz is the doughnut, not me — crusty exterior (well, maybe crusty isn’t the right word, but —) and soft inside. Soft and jammy. A sprinkle of sugar, raspberry or maybe —

— and sweet. He’s so, so sweet.

“I did,” he says eventually, looking down at his hands. “I suppose I did tell you. And it was an empty bet, Simon — nothing was meant by it. Gareth simply enjoyed my cowardice enough to turn a profit from it. I imagine it increased the hype for his damnable birthday party.”

He looks at me. Hopefully? In no uncertain terms of dread? Honestly, with his face it’s anyone’s guess.

But...I don’t have to guess, do I? If you think about it, I’ve come to know him pretty well over this past half-year of us both acting like nutters.

And I know, in my heart, what I have to say back.

“It’s the same. For me. A mutual bet? No. I mean — just, I like you as well. You’re alright, really. I don’t give a fuck what anyone thinks.”

He creases his forehead, and I’m pretty sure he’s going to say something clever, but then his face twists into a smile instead. He’s closing the gap in our makeshift Needless Alley, shifting along the bench until we’re inches apart, knees almost touching. Across the street cheers erupt from the nightclub — I wonder if the pair of prats in there are in a fist fight or snogging violently?

“I’m alright?” Baz asks quietly. “Truly?”

“Yeah.” I swallow. I like how long his eyelashes are. “Sort of. When you want to be.”

He smirks in the night’s low light, and I like that, too.

“I can’t wait to tell Gareth. He’s certain I’m a lost cause...still, I suspect getting money out of him will be like trying to get blood from a stone.”

My eyes flick up to the Magic Box, fluorescent lights and the tang of sweat wafting out from the doors. Baz’s colleague, Trixie, goes barrelling back inside. There’s no one else standing in the doorway to gloat.

He shifts next to me, and I can see he’s looking the same way. We’re eating our way through the night and we haven’t even eaten anything yet. I wonder if Baz is hungry? I generally am. It’s a safe bet to take.

Instead of asking, I pull a couple of shortbread biscuits out of my coat pocket. They’re wrapped in foil. (I don’t always carry spare biscuits around with me.) (Only on Fridays.) “Want to share?”

Eyebrow up. “Why does it not surprise me that you’d bring snacks to a nightclub?”

I shrug. “Emergency biscuits are never a bad idea.”

He takes one, still not quite looking at me. It’s the first time he’s let me give him something without questioning it fifty different ways.

“Thank you.”

Then it’s my turn to be reckless. To win a wager with myself I hadn’t realised I’d been making.

“No worries. After you’ve finished, can I kiss you?”

A moment, a rush of breath and what I think might be wanting.

Then he’s shifting in place and checking his (very nice) watch.

“This isn’t the place, Snow. We’re mere metres away from our murderous colleagues — if they see us, there’ll be a scene.”

He’s right. Still, I can’t help but feel disappointed. It’s a shame that our own bench has to be smack bang in the middle of both bakeries — there’s no sort of privacy there either, else I’d ask if he wanted to meet up on Monday morning. My eyes drift over the Magic Box’s bleak facade — what’s the betting that Gaz and Rhys are in there with their noses pressed up against a window to see if we’re tearing pieces from each other?

“Let’s go somewhere,” I say quickly as he begins to stand. Is he going back inside? The place is a nightmare. “If you want. After work one day. I’ll meet you halfway.”

He glances back at me, hands in his pockets. He really does look lovely in the glow.

“Halfway,” he says faintly. He throws a balled up piece of foil into the bin next to the bench. “Yes, Snow. I think that could work.”

So do I.

I want it to work.

“If I can’t kiss you, can I walk you to the bus stop? Or a taxi stand? Or all the way home?”

His eyes flick up to the club, but only for a moment. “What do you suppose is happening in there? They might come after us next. I believe this makes us traitors to the cause, Snow.”

I shrug. “If all else fails, we can always fake our own deaths.”

He laughs, and it’s automatically something I want to hear again. (And again, and —) “I believe that sort of thing rarely works out.”

“Well, then. Maybe we should just walk away.”

He turns to me, deciding something. “That’s exactly what we should do. I only hope your sense of direction is better than your taste in doughnuts.”

I shake my head solemnly. “It isn’t.”

I don’t think Baz minds too much. A scream erupts from the doors of the club — I twist my neck and see the bouncers wrestling two familiar figures out through the doors.

We don’t go to see what can be salvaged.

We turn together to take on the dark of night.

* * *

_Deny thy employer and refuse thy name, or if thou wilt not,  
be but sworn my love and endless devotion,  
and I'll no longer be a High Street baker. _

* * *

* * *

**FINAL BOW**

* * *

**BAZ**

It’s night when next we meet. I find him outside a patisserie.

Well, it’s not a _true_ patisserie. We’re not in Paris, unfortunately. It’s Druckers in the Bullring centre — risky business, me encroaching on Niall’s terf like this, but the cream cakes are the next best thing to a fantasy. It’s hardly late at night — but it _is_ after five, and it long since turned dark outside, thanks to our dour English seasons. Snow and I both arrive at the agreed time, sitting to look awkwardly at each other from across a square table.

It’s strange, seeing him away from work. Not in a bad way — in fact, I’m rather enjoying how illicit it feels. His face, lit by soft lighting, the menu in his hands not our own...he orders a slice of something with cream and I ask for one with chocolate. When the cakes arrive we push the plates into the middle and share, taking forkfuls of each until both are whittled down to nothing.

If Gareth or anyone from the shop (even the mysterious Greg himself) could see me now, they wouldn’t recognise me.

But they aren’t here. They can’t see me. There’s only Simon.

And he is truly resplendent, dressed in green instead of blue.

“Baz,” he says, after our second cup of tea. The café is closing soon — I’m hoping he’ll want to linger a while longer, perhaps walk around the city until every shop is closed and the train station’s the last place with its lights left on. “I’m having a great night.”

I smile at him, because that’s what I’ll be doing frequently from now on. Smiling at Simon Snow, with whom I hold a terrible secret.

Snow met me halfway, and I’ll never stop loving him for it.

We haven’t told anyone of this yet, our clandestine affair. Dev and Niall have no idea. (Though they’ve been rather too preoccupied with their own despicable version of _working things out_ in recent days, if you catch my drift. Head Office hauled them in for a good talking to, after their morbid to-do at the Magic Box became a Twitter trending topic.) (They have to complete a fifty-hour _managerial respect within the workplace_ course, and do a week’s worth of till duty.)

We’ll tell them eventually. Not today, though. Not tonight.

“This is a mite better than lunch on a bench in the rain, no?”

He reaches across the table to hold my hand.

“I don’t know. I like our lunches in No Man’s Land.”

He’s rather taken with that name. I smile again. (I can’t help it.)

When we leave the café and stand in the light of the windows outside, he asks if he can kiss me, and I realise I’ve run out of excuses. I’ve been waiting, hoping he’d ask again, understanding if he wouldn’t.

It’s more than I thought it would be.

It’s everything I suspected he was; he’s an entire menu, sweet and something to savour. His lips are soft, and when they leave mine I chase them, begging for an encore.

When it ends, I see this for what it is — an appetiser.

There’s so much more for us, yet.

“Baz,” he whispers, hand cupping my cheek, “there’s a Tesco Express on New Street. Want to split a bag of jam doughnuts while we wait for your train?”

I do. I really do, and I tell him so.

We step into the night, his hand wrapped in mine, and I wonder if I bite him just _there_ on his neck, hard enough to leave a mark, will they say anything about it at work? Will anyone guess what we were up to? Meeting the enemy in the dark, sharing another company’s cakes.

“I’m coming to the Bullring for lunch tomorrow,” I tell him. “I want to try your world-renowned valnia custard slices.”

He grins at me, delighted, as the doors slide open to the supermarket.

“Good call — they’re fucking top-notch this week. I’ll let you use my discount,” he says, angling for another kiss. I meet him halfway, his lips a dream. “You’ll have to bring the coffee, though.”

“Why’s that?”

We head for the bakery section of Tesco. It’s like we’re trespassing, sampling others’ wares. We check over our shoulders and decide to split the doughnuts in Victoria Square, our backs to the fountain.

“Our machine’s broken.”

He says it so matter-of-factly, I can’t help but laugh. We argue with the self check-out machine and walk into the night again, hands around each other’s waists, sugar on our lips. I’ll kiss it away later.

“I know just the man for the job,” I tell him, teasing. He laughs. “He wears a rather fetching coat. Do you know what it says on the back?”

“Fixed it,” Simon laughs, smiling at me. I smile back.

“Fixed it,” I say, squeezing his fingers.

_The evening brings a rich peace; the sun tomorrow will show its head._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From _Romeo & Juliet_ by William Shakespeare:
> 
>  _“I defy you, stars.”_ \- Act 5, Scene 1.
> 
>  _"My only love sprung from my only hate!"_ \- Act 1, Scene 5.
> 
>  _"What, drawn, and talk of peace! I hate the word as I hate hell, all Montagues, and thee"_ \- Act 1, Scene 1.
> 
>  _"Give me my sin again."_ \- Act 1, Scene 5.
> 
>  _"Deny thy father and refuse thy name,  
>  Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,  
> And I’ll no longer be a Capulet."_ \- Act 2, Scene 2.
> 
>  _"A glooming peace this morning with it brings;  
>  The sun, for sorrow, will not show his head"_ \- Act 5, Scene 3.


End file.
